In feels like terms your wintering correspondent is probably wearing the equivalent to forty pounds of assorted clothing, socks and hats, this means that climbing the stairs is as useful an activity as maybe digging over ten square yards of ground in early March. Climb the stairs four or five times and my sense of saintliness is such that I'm too exhausted to even think about doing anything foolish like going outside. It's the case also that in the search for perfection we saints understand the value of humility to the great oneness, we don't just sit there feeling smug as we stare at the floor, waiting.
Instead we remember the words of the Alawite Poet: "How can a man, creator of
meaning, draw his destiny into one utterance. How can his spirit be poured into
a wall." The reference is to monotheists though I guess it could just as well
apply to the other wall. Mind you, there is no such thing as suitable hand-wear
when it's like this outside, which is why we saints risk losing fingers to
frostbite when we present ourselves to the outdoors to selflessly remind the
Mockingbird of our existence by cursing the Northern Hemisphere and having a
smoke. Sadly with poets, failure to observe traditional meter draws criticism
from the purists, and it's the same with the political process. No wonder
Bronwyn's Convent looks like a Victorian Military Barracks.