the air that I breathe

Back in the day some hapless inventor was struck squarely amidships by the inspiration for a machine that, while simultaneously punching holes in the ozone layer and spreading interesting germs more efficiently, would enable humanity to settle bits of the globe which are, in actual fact, too darned hot to support human life. This culpable scientist, slaving away in his late-night lab, must have been pursuing some idealised notion of cold air. If he was a particularly artistic, sensitive and creative individual he might, in those early prototypes, have achieved an air conditioner with a cold air output that contained, in some tiny corner of its being, a faint kernel or shadow or reflection of the quality of air in Cape Town this morning. Good, hard-working air-conditioners who've lived the right kind of life and sincerely repent the death of innocent ozone are allowed to breathe this when they die.

There's a strong north-westerly wind coming off the sea, rime-edged. You're suddenly aware of air in a way you're not usually: it's cooler, slightly denser, sharp but slower, tending to flow lazily into your lungs and settle there, heavier than air, chill and slightly liquid. Breathing it isn't automatic: it's a benediction, an infusion of something cleansing and rigorous. Air: the religious experience.

Did I mention that I love this weather?

Today I scored, courtesy of the Nicest Ex-Supervisor in the World, a Pre-Raphaelite poster of Proserpina by Dante Gabriel Rosetti. The Proserpina who doesn't so much look exactly like Scroobious, as suggest her irresistibly.



I hope you don't mind the damp on my bedroom wall, Scroob. You look pretty good there :>.