When the Empress Danced

It is said, still after all these years, by those who knew her, that she was the most beautiful woman they'd ever met. Even allowing for the way time alters perceptions so we only remember the golden times, it is still something remarkable.

Of course, history has a way of choosing who it wants to remember and who it wants to forget. History has decided to keep Empress Shilah as one of its own, while her husband is left for the dust of time to cover over.

This suits me.

Even back then, I merged into the background, becoming the forgotten Emperor, while Shilah became the symbol and the beloved of the empire.

Of course, that was not the whole story. As my wise old teacher, the philosopher Hedden, said to me once, 'while everyone is watching the dancer, no-one sees what goes on in the shadows.'

I liked to live, and – yes – rule, in those shadows, letting Shilah dance for everyone. She liked the attention, she liked the gold, the rich fabrics, the obsequious attendants, servants and slaves. She loved the fawning ambassadors and the politicians all eager to lick the dust from her feet, if her whim so commanded it.

They all thought that winning her favour would aid them in whatever way they thought would further their desires. Little did they know that while they plotted and schemed behind their smiles, while they manoeuvred and plotted to gain her favour or merely lusted after her, I was there in the shadows behind them listening and learning.

Of course, the stories and tales tell of all her lovers and her desires. But Shilah was not like that. Like all beautiful women who spurn men's – and women's – advances the stories grew more lewd and lurid the more of them she turned down and turned away from. She always, every night, came to my bed to listen to the stories I told her of what I'd learnt from the shadows while the court danced its attention on her.

She had no other lovers.

Except for that lover that crept out of the darkness of the East, out of the shadows where even I feared to tread. The lover that came from the plague- scarred lands and stole her from me with his fatal kiss.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Time of the Lesser Gods

Now as at all timesI can see in the minds eye, in their stiff, painted clothes,the pale unsatisfied onesoutside the fish and chip shop. But those days are over now and those in need of the holy benediction of hot chips go elsewhere and follow other – lesser - gods.

There was a time, when this was fish and chip shops as far as the eye could see. Well, as far as the eye could see at closing time when we fell out of the pub. But for some reason, back then there was something in the atmosphere – possibly some kind of industrial pollution – which affected the sight after only a few hours in the pub. Making even the avoidance of a collision with a street light sometimes very problematical indeed.

Of course, some blamed the beer, but that was mere foolishness. Except, possibly, in the case of the Bull's Head. A pub where there was a strong suspicion the landlord served industrial effluent instead of beer. But, usually by the time we got to the Bull's Head such acts of connoisseurship were often – at best – mere philosophical speculation.

Still, the day came when the first kebabappeared upon the face of the land. Of course, there were some who regarded it with suspicion, with Sceptical Stan wanting to kill it with a stick. But for others of a more questioning nature it was the kind of challenge they liked to rise to – or at least stumble towards – once the pubs were closed.

Soon the kebab shops were everywhere. They became just as much of a tradition as the tradition they replaced. Then those wise – or brave - enough to pontificate to the general bewilderment of those alongside them in the queue about such things are told, in the wise words of the prophet Nhigelto 'shut the fuck up'.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Time to Go

Perhaps this should be the day I turn and walk away. Perhaps I should be gone from here, go back again.

I know I never belonged here. This city was always a strange place to me. I get uneasy this close to people, especially strangers. I am too used to being alone now.

I don’t know why I came to this place. I was looking for something, but what it is I do not know. Now, as far as I can see, no-one else here in these teeming streets has any idea of what I look for here either.

I was out on the road one night, sitting by my campfire, watching the flames when a stranger, some traveller came up. When I was sure – as sure as I could be - he was not going to kill me, and he was as sure as he could be I would do likewise to him; I offered him a place in front of my fire. We - warily, at first – exchanged food and stories of how we’d got to be in the same place on that road that night.

I said I was looking for something I could not name and could not place.

He told me that cities have so many answers to so many questions. What cannot be taught at the universities and schools can be bought in the markets or alleyways and what cannot be taught or bought can be learnt on the streets and in the houses that line the streets, looking down through open windows as life passes by beneath them.

I have been here in the city for almost a year now. I found no answers in the university, the temple or the market place. I found no-one who could tell me what I seek in the temples, the inns or the brothels and I am still alone and searching, watching the streets below for any sign of what it is I need.

Now, though, all I know, all I have learnt, is that the time has come for me to go.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Radicalism and Tinned Fruit

It was not that it was all that obvious, except from certain angles, but you could easily tell she was one of those women, by the way she moved down the street. Women, in the West, have achieved financial and social independence over the recent century or so. Consequently, certain women do indeed prefer to carry a tin of peach slices with them when they are out and about on an evening.

It was just over a hundred years ago when the Suffragette Henrietta Bullspizzle chained herself to the railings outside 10 Downing Street clutching a tin of peach slices. A few months later, another suffragette Doreen Pendulous smuggled a tin of mandarin segments, concealed in her bodice, into Purple's, a staunch men-only Gentleman's club. Another suffragette flagrantly opened a tin of fruit cocktail during the Grand National with - as we all know – tragically fatal consequences when the authorities later discovered she didn't have an appropriate serving spoon for the occasion.

From these tentative beginnings the suffragettes regarded carrying tinned fruit on or about the person as a political act. They claimed that the male patriarchy had a certain dismissive view of women found possessing various tinned goods when on a night out, especially tinned fruit. Suffragettes claimed men often viewed women holding - say – a tin of pineapple rings in a predatory manner. Especially if that male had in his possession a tin-opener (See, for example, Germoline Goat's: The Female with Fruit Cocktail in Syrup). This they claimed discriminated against the woman – who may have legitimate reasons of her own to want to carry some tinned fruit when going about her business.

However, as time passed and fashions changed it became more and more common for women to go out on the town carrying the aforementioned tinned fruit. This was especially the case for a girls' night out, when each of the women, more as a fashion accessory than as a political statement of feminist solidarity took with them a tin of mandarin segments.

Therefore present-day feminists have called for several Reclamation of the Peach Slices (in Syrup) Nights to take place in town centres throughout the UK. They hope the original spirit of radicalism can be reclaimed from what is now little more than a fashionable way of accessioning for a night on the town.

Others, though, claim that it is too late now and that modern feminists should be looking at other grocery items should they wish to make a political statement of equal importance to that of their forebears.

However, only time will tell who is right, this time.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

A Time Long Before Now

It was a time long before now. It was a time long before I brought this world into being. Back then, I was no god. I am not much of one now, but now I have this universe I created and this world. It has these creatures who look to the skies for someone to thank and blame for their lives and the awareness of themselves they have.

They blame me for all that is wrong with their world and their short, hard lives and they praise me for creating them and the world they live in. I did not ask them to worship me and I don't particularly like it, or the way they keep talking to me in their prayers and at their times of sacrifice, begging me to intercede on their behalf.

Although, why they think I will do anything for them, or to them, I do not know. I just made the world and they came into being on it. I did not want followers, worshippers.

They fight amongst themselves all the time too, each side claiming they are the ones that know me best and know what I want of the world and the people on it. I don't even know that myself, and they certainly don't. Anyway, they just like to fight one another and I'm one of the best excuses they've found.

Not that it matters much to me, like I said I never wanted to them to worship me. All I wanted to do was make something and see what happened. Sometimes, now I wish I hadn't bothered.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

History Lessons

History Lessons

The world is growing older, people come
along here all the time and have to learn
the lessons from what's gone before, each time,
as though its something new this time around.

It's all the same old stuff, each time the time
returns to dance its ageing dance again.
It looks so new to eyes all seeing it
this time, for the first time, the tale gets told.

There's nothing new, and nothing more to learn
and yet, the lessons never really learnt,
what's gone before is never understood,
as though we only learn these lessons well

by our direct experience and not
by seeing how the previous generations
all stumbled, falling in those muddy fields,
and fighting for the same lost causes, still,

and for the same dull visions as before,
while we prepare to fight for our mistakes,
delusions and so much we need to believe
to keep us marching on until it ends
and then we need believe no more lost dreams.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Pork Pie and Society

Of course, once you have the pork pie firmly grasped in the right hand, all manner of things become possible that were not possible beforehand. - The Pork Pie and Society. It was – probably – those very opening words from his seminal masterpiece, that made Ordinance Quimtrimmer the most famous philosopher of his age. Up until then, academic philosophy had been dominated by the Logical-sandwichists, who – famously – believed that all philosophical problems could be solved by a decent sandwich – although there were several competing schools of though who argued over which of the many varieties of sandwiches was the ideal sandwich – an idea that can be traced back to Plato's idea of Forms. Although, it wasn't until the scientific age that a true philosophical understanding of the nature of sauces, chutneys and relishes – up to and including sweet pickle - was put on a much more rigorous philosophical footing, thus enabling the sandwich to take its place at what the logico-sandwichists claimed was the heart of philosophical eating.

However, when Quimtrimmer came along, claiming that it was the pork pie, not the sandwich, that was the true philosophical lunch, chaos broke out in the normally staid world of the academic philosophy departments of the Western world. Thus bringing about the significant revolution in lunch and snack-based eating habits that has transformed the post-war Western world, most would say to the greater benefit of civilisation as a whole.

Others, though, point to the Pot Noodle and despair.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Of course, there are times when it seems the whole world is arrayed against us. Such times when the very car park of possibility seems as o'er brimmed as a summer afternoon's rain gauge, but still we soldier on, mainly because there is bugger all else to do. The world is against us, we ought to know that because there is no way of winning, we will run out before time does and - even in the unlikely event that the world ends before we do, we'll still be buggered because we need the world more than it needs us.

Still, there is no need to be disheartened – well, there is, but we won't go into that – as this world is stuff full of so many splendid things, up to and including some rather wonderful cheeses and the possibility of getting our hands on a halfway decent pint. Add to that the slim chance that there may even – in the not too distant future – something almost worth watching on the telly, then the world begins to look not all that bad and life almost worth living – at least compared to the alternative.

Not only that, we should also bear in mind that there is a good chance that one day very soon a politician is going to do something so unbelievably stupid that it will be enough to keep the entire population amused for weeks into the future until that politician is - eventually – forced to resign. Then we can all wake up the next morning with the knowledge that – at least for now – there is one less of the bastards screwing it all up for the rest of us.

A Crack in Space

It had been quite a while since I’d made any Yorkshire puddings, so I was checking the amount of flour I needed as I took the second egg from the box and cracked it on the side of the bowl.

When I looked down….

I’m not sure, but I think there is a creation myth of one of the many hundreds – if not thousands – of religions humankind has invented throughout its history, that says something about the universe emerging from an egg.

Whichever religion it was – if it was one – was right.

There, floating a few inches above my bowl containing the other – normal – egg was a dark cloud, already twinkling with stars forming as it expanded. The dark cloud spreading and growing, not so much a big bang as a slow splurge, spreading out over the kitchen as I stood watching it.

Maybe it was slow because it had merged from a cracked open egg, maybe it was slow because I’d just taken it from the fridge, but universes are supposedly cold places, so maybe that was not it.

Of course, it is not every day that a new universe appears in someone’s kitchen, so at the time I was gob-smacked, dumfounded, paralysed by wonder and – quite possibly – a bit of fear too, as I wondered whether I would be subsumed into this new universe that was now spreading dangerously beyond the mug tree towards the microwave.

I remembered something about microwave radiation and the big bang from some science programme I’d half-watched and decided that something this big, something on the scale of a universe appearing in the kitchen was too big for me to handle on my own.

So I did the only wise thing I could in the situation.…

I called for my wife to come and help.

The Trousers of the Moment

Just why Rumple Grungewelly became such a world-famous celebrity, is - of course – a matter for a more popular culture-compatible pair of trousers than the pair I am currently on the inside of. However, I can safely say without fear of comprehension, that he would not have become as world-famous as he now undoubtedly is without a fine and discerning talent for spotting the trousers of the moment.

We have all – no doubt – had our own share of trouser-related misfortunes, but it seems that Grungewelly himself is not only the only celebrity on this planet, but possibly the only trouser-wearer who has managed to avoid any such tragic trouser-related mishaps. No matter where he is seen by the ever-present paparazzi, he – uncannily as it seems – never seems to be residing inside the wrong sort of trouser for the situation. This is a feat that will leave most of us who habitually have to make many fraught trouser-related decisions as an almost supernatural talent.

Thus is Grungewelly's fame assured... at least as long as there are trousers, or -come to that – legs to put inside them.

The Weasel Hordes of Indifference and Ingratitude

We all know that the weasel hordes of indifference and ingratitude sweep majestically across the wide-open plains of the car parks of this once-proud nation. We forget that in days of yore this country had chip shops that were the very envy of the world.

And… yet.

And yet….

Still, I feel as though something throbs, something pulsates deep in the darkest recesses of the underwear of our souls. There awaits something that will grow once again to stand tall and proud, but only if we can find those gentle ministering fingers that know how to take hold of its uncertainty, take it in hand and stroke all these cares away.

If only.

If only.

But she is far, far away now, strolling alone, head bowed across the existential beach of her dreams while the sea of eternity slow creeps ever closer, even now beginning to lap around her ankles. Her thoughts are gone, way past those dunes where once we lay together through those long naked afternoons watching those languid clouds chasing each other across skies of deeper than forever blue.

And I?

I can only wonder if when she returns she will bring those thoughts back home with her.

Or – at least – come back with a bag of chips.

Another Wasted Day

It was slow, heavy and hot; one of those days where the hours seem to hang there as the minutes slowly drip of into the pool of another wasted day. She did not know what to do. There had been – once – a time in her life when she knew where she was going and what she would do once she’d got there. She’d had a life of possibilities and dreams. There had been a feeling that she would end up somewhere special, looking back on a life that had been full of chances taken and achievements made.

Now, she looked around the room, the breeze hardly shifting the hot heavy air of what once she would have seen as a summer of possibility. The wallpaper was old; yellowing and beginning to peel at the edges. The shelves were dusty and home to a mishmash of times she had just left there to gather a layer of dust of their own. The furniture was tired; defeated by the weight of the years it had stood, waiting for something to happen in this room.

She sighed and wondered if it was really worth it, really worth the effort - and the eventual disappointment – of trying to begin yet again. She remembered the story of Pandora’s box and that after all the bad things had fled the box, how the last thing left in there had been hope, and she wondered if that – hope – wasn’t the cruellest torment of all.

The Consolations of Nudity

Once upon a time you dressed so fine* which, to the minds of most philosophers does tend to undervalue the appeal of nudity, especially to those in the near vicinity of the undressed person – providing of course that the undresser is not too hard on the eye of the undressees nearby. In which case, there could be legitimate health and safety concerns, especially if the undressees all flee for the exits as a panicking mob.

Still, as they say: …..

Well, I'm pretty sure they would say something, after all in situations like this they tend to always have some pithy apophthegm to beguile us with, don't they?'

Smart-arsed bastards....

Anyway, putting that to one side while standing back to admire its rather fetching attractiveness for a moment....

It is time to step back for a moment from the... er.... rigours of philosophy to contemplate something rather less interesting than the possibility of someone in the near vicinity getting their kit off, which makes most philosophers themselves wish they'd spent less time amongst the dusty tomes and more time out meeting people with a disinclination to remain inside their clothing, but still - apparently – according to Boethius there are some Consolations of Philosophy, and he wrote that in prison, so - perhaps - he should know.

So, mind how you go**.

 

*Like a Rolling Stone – The Dylan

** Yes, It is a philosophy pun***

***Sorry****.

****Not really*****.

*****Sorry, that is.

A Strange World

Of course, it does tend to happen a lot while you are not looking. That is the way it is with the unforeseen… or, for that matter, the not seen. There are as we all know forces that lie outside of what conventional physics claim – how else would we explain the sudden coming into being of so many price-comparison websites in what would otherwise be a rational universe?

In the past, people made up religions and political theories to explain all the strangeness. However, since almost by definition, you have to be pretty odd yourself to want to invent a religion or political programme, this rather increased the amount of irrational oddity in the universe, rather than explaining it. This is a bit like making a ‘Reality’ TV programme about the making of a ‘Reality’ TV programme – it just increases the amount of idiocy in the world.

We are all idiots, babe – that goes without saying, even though his Holiness - the Great Bobness himself - went ahead and said it anyway.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of these things.

Anyway, the point – if there is a point – is that we are all more than capable of being idiots by ourselves; we do not need religions or political theories, systems and programmes to do it for us. That is just overkill – often quite literally.

Bedroom Adventures

It was, almost as a matter of course, not one of her better ideas. Although, having said that I must – at this juncture – point out that I, without any shadow of doubt whatsoever – always see her ideas as being some of the best, if not the best, ever put forward in the history of civilisation.

It is – obviously – that circumstances conspire against her and she should – under no circumstances be regarded as at fault when this universe fails to live up to her - somewhat rather exacting - standards.

Obviously….

Now, as was the one with the badminton racquet and the flippers, it fell to me to stand next to the bed, while she gave the watermelon a final polish* before preparing to bowl it towards where I had – I thought, at least – arranged the tins of mackerel fillets in tomato sauce in a rather artful arrangement.

Say what you like about beauty, and art and aesthetics, but I do honestly believe – and not only while she’s looking – that there is no finer sight in this universe than a stark-naked (except for the obligatory fur trapper hat, of course) lady of a certain age standing on a bed in the privacy of her own bedroom, preparing to bowl a highly-polished watermelon at a stack of mackerel fillet tins.

As I’m sure all red-bloodied males would agree… especially if within her earshot.

But then, just as all seemed perfect, we suddenly realised it was time for the next episode of Downton Abbey, so what could so easily have been a perfect moment was ruined by the vagaries of TV scheduling. It is – as I’m sure you would agree - about time they did something about it.

 

* Not a euphemism

The Gathering Place

It became a gathering place, more by accident than anything else, although, it had the river and the sea which were both useful. It was small enough for us all at first. When we arrived there were just the six of us, but after time more arrived, slowly in the beginning; one or two every six weeks or so, but soon I found myself Lord of a small village.

I did not want to be in charge. I’d had enough of that before The End came. I’d been running my own business and getting sick of all the petty administration and government rules and regulations. I had seriously considered selling-up and getting out. Then The End came and there was no more business, no more government and – mostly – no more people.

Now I am the government. I still hate government, but now I see it is necessary… even though I do as little of it as I can get away with. I’d much rather be working the fields, fishing in the river or out at sea in one of our boats. I prefer even herding the sheep to looking after the village, even though the similarities always tend to make me smile.

It is the endless bickering about who does and who doesn’t do ‘their fair share’ that get me down, that and the arguments over women. You would think, well, I used to think – before The End – that somehow if humanity could start again, reboot our civilisation, and that the next time we’d do it better, especially after all we’ve learnt.

Instead, I should have looked at all those ‘revolutionary’ societies, the communists and fascists and so on and how they had all fallen apart trying to create something new.

It seem that humanity will always create some kind of balls-up when more than a few of us get together to build something. So, these days, I just try to sit back and let it – sort of – evolve, sort itself out.

Sometimes, I even think it will… eventually.

Days of Revolution

I knew her, back then. It was a long time ago. I was a different person then. I was young and – of course – I knew everything. Now, I am a different person, much older, and I know so little and care about even less.

Back then, I cared about everything, I wanted to save the world, put it all to rights and bring about a revolution that would end forever injustice, inequality, poverty and so much that I thought was wrong with the world.

These days all of that is still wrong, but I know I cannot put any of it right, and – what is more – one of the few things I do know, beyond any doubt is that those who try to make the world a better place by trying to tackle those big things only ever make things worse.

Jenny, back then, was like me, a believer in changing things. Even though we argued all the time, we both believed in the same things, both thought we could be the ones that could make the difference, be the ones who could make the world see how wrong it was, and how it could - we thought - so easily be so different.

It never occurred to us that the world knew about its own faults, and that those with any sense already knew that change is only ever really possible over time, that evolution is the only way, and revolution only ends with more children crying in the dirt and soaked in the blood of their parents.

One day, I woke up and realised all this. I tried to tell Jenny, but she – of course – would not listen. So, we had our final argument. I packed up my things and walked away and Jenny went off to save the world.

I’m still here, just trying to get though each day; the world goes on going to hell as it has always done, but Jenny…. Well, she was just defeated by it all and all that remains of her now are my memories of her.

Philosophical Investigations

‘There are many things in this world that – to the surprise of many - do not taste of pineapple.’ Everyone, these days, is surely familiar with these wise words by the 20^th century’s greatest philosopher Ludwig von Wittless, who lived through some of the most tumultuous decades of that benighted century and was even present on that most significant day of the century when West Germany lost the World Cup Final to England in 1966. For von Witless this was a very complex situation as he had left Germany to escape the Nazi menace and now lived and taught at Oxford, in a fish and chip shop quite near one of the colleges.

Consequently, von Wittless was undecided which team to support as he had profound philosophical objections to Alf Ramsey’s use of the 4-3-3 formation. This – of course – led to his notorious philosophical break with the French philosopher, novelist and professional Gauloise-inhaler, Albert Campus, who famously declared that ‘the winger – like God – is dead.’ a statement which caused rioting at the Sorbonne and led to condemnation from one of the French president’s more philosophically-inclined mistresses.

Anyway, once von Wittless, had turned his back on football he – of course – returned to the philosophy of fruit and the age-old paradox – dating back to the time of Plato and Aristotle – of how do we know that an apple is an apple. Leaving aside A. J. Ayer’s contention that: ‘It is bloody obvious that an apple is a sodding apple and if you want to debate it, I’ll see you outside, son!’ as philosophically naïve, von Wittless observed – once he was well out of Ayer’s reach - that just because it is in the supermarket labelled as an apple – it does not necessarily mean that it is an apple, or – for that matter a pomegranate (as Heraclites had insisted before Pythagoras twatted him one around the scrolls with his philosophising bat).

Still, despite all these reservations, Von Witless did indeed make one of the most philosophically-sound fresh fruit salads ever tasted in a university Philosophy Department, and for that we of the succeeding generations should be extremely grateful for his pioneering work in this field.

Shed-Based Cogitations

Then there are three of them, which, if you’ve never been quietly engaged in philosophical speculation in your shed and been disturbed by She and her cronies then you are indeed fortunate.

However, like all those unused to philosophical speculation and contemplation, they were immediately curious as to why such deep pondering involves the use of so many pictorial representations of the naked female form. Of course, those of you familiar with Aristotle’s work will immediately see why such philosophical speculation in the calm and privacy of garden shed is so important to a man’s mental well-being.

Not only that, the use of beer as an aid to philosophical inquiry has been proved beyond doubt especially in the tavernas around the philosophical academies and symposia of ancient Greece, where it was not unusual to see a heap of insensate philosophers overpowered by their own philosophical ability and power of thought, all snoring peacefully next to the bin full of empties.

This is of course – as I pointed out to my trio of sceptics - why so much Greek art featured nudity. The ancient Greeks were – rightly – proud of their philosophers and wanted to do all they could to help them in their cogitations. Not something – I pointed out – that seems to have followed through to this day and age.

Suitably chastised, the three made a hasty exit when they saw the errors of their ways, although, why they accidentally seem to have locked me out of the house is hard to grasp, even with such a philosophically-acute mind such as mine… and why they left all my belongings in a heap on the back step is a matter I will have to ponder as soon as I can get more beer in.

The Mystery of the Fridge

There was a fridge.

There was a spoon.

Fairly obviously a fridge will not – in the normal course of events – fit inside a spoon.

A spoon will, of course, fit easily into a fridge. However, that is not where we usually put them.

So, as I stood there, in front of the closed door of the fridge, I had to ask myself why I had just opened the fridge, put a spoon inside it and then shut its door again.

I had no answer to that question.

I opened the fridge door again and there was the spoon sitting – quite comfortably – on the shelf in front of me.

Why?

I thought. I must have come into the kitchen and picked up a spoon, intending to eat something from the fridge using that spoon.

I opened the door again. The fridge was empty, apart from the spoon. There was nothing in there at all.

I shut the fridge door again and looked at my watch.

The watch, amongst other things, told me it was Sunday. We usually did our shopping on Saturday, so the fridge should be full of stuff, lovely things all waiting there to be eaten.

So, I’d come into the kitchen, got a spoon and opened the fridge, expecting to eat something from it, probably involving the spoon. But the fridge was empty, so I’d put the spoon down in shock and shut the fridge, my mind blank and unable to process this startling information in a satisfactory manner.

I smiled. I had solved the problem.

No, I hadn’t.

Why was the fridge empty? Empty on a Sunday?

I looked around the kitchen, looking for an answer.

It was only then I realised that the kitchen wasn’t there, either.