MY EMAIL IS DEAD*. AND I WANT MY SERVER’S GUTS ON A PLATE.**
I had an email a few days ago from my host or whatever the arglebargle jerkface, saying that my email was migrating. Quack quack quack or similar. I had no idea that email was of a nomadic bent. And that when this process was complete and it was contentedly nest-building in its new neighbourhood I was going to have to mrffjjjx darblefhha gormblad, being extra-careful with the tuvuprk so that it doesn’t hipplycritz. I leaped back with a cry as if I’d been burnt, and forwarded this dreadful memorandum to Raphael. Who replied laconically that he would come out and reconfigure, and that he’d bring restraints for the tuvuprk , which was prone to bolting.
Migration was supposed to occur on Monday. How was I supposed to know if it’s happened or not? My email continued to behave as normal, which is to say as if possessed by demons, but no better or worse than it ever does.
Raphael came today on the assumption that my email must have moved into its new home by now and was ready for him to hang the pictures on the walls and fix the leaky tap and the sticky door.
Nope. Still migrating. Maybe it has a lot of boxes of books.
So he can’t reconfigure. And therefore he took his departure*** and I went about my (slow†) business
This evening, firing up the laptop for the first time since about an hour after Raphael left . . . MY EMAIL IS DEAD. I sent a suitably outraged text to Raphael who rang me from home, trying not to laugh, but it’s so dead he can’t talk me through a patch.
He’s coming again tomorrow, poor man. The hellterror will be delighted.
* * *
* So is the dishwasher.^ This is a CALAMITY. Peter, while admirably domestic in theory, and goes through the motions beautifully, belongs to that quaint British philosophy which holds that most household chores are performed for their ritual function, in which gesture, posture and the type and quality of your ceremonial objects are the crucial aspects, and hygiene has nothing to do with it.^^ AAAAAAAAAUGH.^^^
^ I mean the electric appliance. Calm down.
^^ Yes. British. Sue me. We have slobs in America—lots of slobs, in fact—but this business of faithfully and energetically applying the dish mop# to no discernable effect is British.
# That’s part of the problem right there. Dish mop?
^^^ Also something previously living has taken its final departure from this mortal coil somewhere rather too nearby and we have the invasion of big fat bluebottle flies at the mews to prove it. Yuck.# The only thing to be said for having them in the middle of winter is that they’re really slow and you can just about whap them out of the air, should you want to, and not bother waiting for them to light somewhere. I HAVE THREE DOGS AND NOT ONE OF THEM IS INTERESTED IN CATCHING FLIES. It’s not a rabbit, say the hellhounds. It’s not a hedgehog. IT’S TOO HIGH UP, says the hellterror, whose pogosticking is not an exact science.##
# Peter, at the far end of the mews, which is very nice for those of us who sing a lot louder than we used to and don’t want to be heard by the neighbours, is slap up against farmland, and the farmer in this case is a slob, speaking of slobs. Peter’s too nice to take her to court. He could.
## I think I’ve told you—? the story of one of Peter’s in laws ringing us up in a panic, many years ago now, while we were still at the old house, because she was having a sudden invasion of bluebottles and was assuming The World Was Ending? I happened to answer the phone. Nah, I said, it’s just that something’s died in your vicinity. If you have any closed-up chimneys or similar—especially if there’s a funny smell—it’s worth trying to find and dispose of it. If not, buy an extra fly swatter and hunker down. It’ll be over pretty soon—a few days, a week. Oh thank you, she said. I knew you’d know.
** Yes, Peter is still alive and breathing and his body parts remain in conformance to the standard arrangement. Although he went to his Wednesday bridge club today and confessed when he came home that he had faded badly by the end. You had a stroke a month ago. Lighten up.^
^ I’m still not in a very good mood. I’m being vouchsafed the honour of giving him a ride home from town tomorrow morning+ because he has to climb up the long hill to my end of town. I’ll get the palanquin dusted off.++
+ Sic. Late morning.
++ Hey. We have four bearers. Two hellhounds, a hellterror, and me. I admit the height differential is tricky#, but we’ll figure something out.
# Not to mention hellterror directional control
*** After a brief frustrating conversation about Android tablets, because the tablet-sized homeopathic software I want is only on Android. Fie.^
^ And while Astarte is a wonderful machine in many ways+, even Raphael has never managed to make her play nicely with PC-based email. Speaking of frelling email.
+ I am presently reading another cheap ebook that I again bought for the author’s name when it appeared in one of the weekly Kindle come-ons and . . . . arrrrrrgh. FOR PITY’S SAKE GET ON WITH IT. It’s alternate history and they want you to know they have DONE THEIR HOMEWORK. If this were hard copy I’d’ve thrown it across the room by now. As it is the skimming swipe-finger is so seductive I may even finish it. If reading one page in five counts as finishing.
† I’m due to go Street Pastoring this Friday and I’m going. ME, are you listening? You can knock me around two more days. Friday night I have plans.
Darkness made it through the night* without further incident** and today (thus far) has been normal.*** Life with hellhounds: a dizzying head trip with gruesome outbreaks of reality. Fortunately my hellhounds are cute. Warm and furry does me in every time, especially if there are wagging tails involved.
But I was on the phone to my vet at what passes in my case for an extremely early hour this morning.† And, wonder of wonders he was not only there—he has a nasty habit of volunteering to do marsupial field surgery in Venezuela or chiroptera rehabilitation in Romania—but he took my call. And I certainly had stuff to tell him.†
I breathed a huge sigh of relief and cautious optimism †† when I hung up, and took my assortment of hellcritters on brisk brief hurtles because Raphael was coming to scold Astarte and tell her to stop jerking me around and losing or refusing to recognise my email . . . and of course she behaved faultlessly the moment his authoritative tread was heard BUT . . .
I’ve been moaning about my current printer for months if not years. There are days when I can’t get it to print at all . . . and at this point it’s become one of the things that is making PEG II such a struggle. But I can’t frelling afford a new printer. Raphael had mentioned the new printer again when he booked to come out here and he just happened to have the one he was recommending in the boot of his car when he arrived. Ha ha ha I’ve heard that one before.
Oh, I said. Is it wireless?
It’s better than wireless, he said. It’s on nice stable cable, but [blah blah blah, something to do with the wireless picking up the signal from any given computer—and including Astarte, who I haven’t been able to print from at all without the idiot faff of sending myself an email attachment—and translating it to the printer]. So as far as I’m concerned it’s wireless: I don’t have to plug anything in I just HIT THE PRINTER BUTTON.
AND BETTER YET, IT PRINTS.
Of course I don’t know how long this blessed state of affairs will last††† but . . . maybe long enough to get PEGs II and III done. Please. . . .
* * *
* How poetic, if you don’t know what I’m talking about
** Unless there’s a crack-to-the-next-universe, like the ruts in Kes’ driveway, in the bottom of the hellhound crate which they are careful to use in extremis. On the whole I doubt this. Although it might explain the occasional apparent disappearance of old dog blankets.
*** And he’s just had dinner and is curled up and crashed out, so we have crossed our fingers and are typing with great difficulty.
† It takes me a good hour of caffeine and deep breathing to be sufficiently re-engaged with modern life to be able to find a phone number and then punch it into some machine which includes telephony in its repertoire. I usually try to get dressed before I do anything drastic like use a phone, since modern phones all have eight hundred and ninety-five options . . . and that’s just the preloaded ringtones. I remember when making a phone call involved a phone or address book made of paper and a low-key lump of plastic that only made telephone calls. Gone are the days etc. Levi’s frelling button flies—the problem being that I like the jeans—are a big fat nuisance when you’re trying to have a quick pee in a hedgerow but doing them up first time in the morning is a useful station on the way to contemporary functionality.^ I don’t try to put any jewellery on^^ till much later: all those horrible little clasps.^^^
^ It fascinates me, these people who allegedly reach for their iPhone or equivalent before they get out of bed. Presumably this means they can, even in an unawake, precaffeinated state, turn the thing on, since there can’t be a lot of point to grappling with it if you’re not turning it on.+ The ridiculous truth is that Pooka usually does sit on a shelf by my bed (except when I forget) but if Peter ever did ring me in an emergency I’d be all is-this-a-dagger-which-I-see-before-me-the-handle-toward-my-hand-come-let-me-clutch-thee-I-have-thee-not-and-yet-I-see-thee-still.++
+ Okay, good luck charm maybe? I’ve always thought rabbits’ feet totally ewwww and creepy. A nice shiny piece of tech is to be preferred.
++ That was all one word. Microsoft believes hyphens are sacred.
^^ And I’m a jewellery kind of girl, although I stopped wearing long ropey things that hellcritters can get their legs through years ago.
^^^ It’s nice to think that all those people who lived before the internet was invented didn’t have it all their own way.
† The problem with homeopathy for animals is that they don’t talk, and homeopathy depends on the sufferer’s individual experience of what is wrong with them which means that the homeopath needs to know what that is. I’ve told you this before: if three people come to a homeopath with ‘flu’ involving aches and pains and fever but one of them says that the worst is the headache, and one says the worst is the nausea and one says the worst is the sore throat, they’ll get three different remedies. Although my hellhounds’ digestion is the presenting problem, ‘unpredictable outbreaks of double-ended geysering’ is of limited diagnostic usefulness^ and what Aethelstan was interested in is the ‘mentals’ in response to the first remedy, which were basically that Chaos got gloomy and lugubrious and Darkness got chirpy and cheerful, which is pretty much the opposite of their normal selves.
So that’s the hellhounds sorted with two fresh remedies.^^ Whereupon we came to the hellterror, and I told him depressedly about the disastrous show, and that Olivia had suggested that I might want to look for a behaviourist within my reach in the south of England. And he said mildly, I don’t think you have a problem dog and I don’t think you need a behaviourist at this point. I think you have a year-old puppy, a terrier, and an ordinary pet dog that had never seen anything like a big dog show before. Aethelstan is a terrier person himself, so he has more of a clue than most of the other people I’ve spoken to about what happened. You mean I’m not a bad person? That would be wonderful. I told him what I was doing off the long list of suggestions Southdowner made for giving Pav a wider experience of the world and he said he thought that sounded fine—while agreeing that we do need to address what he tactfully calls the ‘residual fear’ from her more important meltdown at the local vets’ last spring when she was so ill and miserable. So she’s got a new remedy too . . . and I feel so much better about the whole situation I may venture on the perilous course of testing her long down at the dog-friendly pub soon.
^ There are pages and pages and PAGES of diarrhoea remedies in any homeopathic textbook.
^^ I wish.
†† I don’t think we’re at the end of any roads or anything, but at least I feel we’re moving again.
††† Or how I’m going to pay for it.
Tabitha—my Bowen-massage lady—seems to have mauled us worse than usual today. Peter and I were both blundering around this evening saying I’m shattered . . . . bluuuuuuh . . . I’m shattered. Bluuuuuuuh.*
So I had this idea I’d respond to some forum comments. . . .
Have I mentioned lately that I HATE MY PRINTER? I hate my printer. Hate. Hate.
. . . I *so understand*. For several hours yesterday I was TRYING to get our new office computer to “see” the new . . . printer. After *eventually* succeeding… it printed gibberish. . . . That’s when I discovered that, in all likelihood, there ARE no compatible drivers… AARRGGGGHHHH
And . . . I re-discovered this gem from The Oatmeal . . .
Why I Believe Printers Were Sent From Hell To Make Us Miserable
Anyone who hasn’t read this should immediately remedy this error. If you’ve been having a BAD TECHNOLOGY DAY read it twice. I wasn’t having a bad technology day till a few minutes ago possibly because I haven’t been near a computer till a few minutes ago since this morning. But my laptop immediately engaged with this distressing situation and after the first few copy-and-pastes from the forum to give me something to hang a post on in the absence of any brain activity . . . when I clicked back to the forum again there was an error message. There has been an ERROR on this page, it declared. Do you want to continue to jambledubfred the garbonzoleach? Yes. No. Clicking on yes . . . nothing happened. Clicking on no . . . nothing happened. Trying to close the window made it flash smartly and go DING!, and no, it did not close. Refreshing the page produced exactly the same non-result.
I saved your comments. I closed everything down. IE struggled furiously, like a rabbit in a lurcher’s mouth or possibly an old-fashioned vampire impaled on an old-fashioned stake, before that cool Buffy before-the-watershed TV-friendly splintering into ash thing, but eventually inertia** overcame it and it disappeared up its own . . . fundament. Squish.
I turned everything on again. —GARGLE ARGLE BARGLE DARGLE. The last time Raphael was here he re-installed Skype, which doesn’t like the laptop, AND NOW IT WON’T NOT LAUNCH*** WHEN I TURN THIS DRANGLEFLAMPING COMPUTER ON.† Raphael told me exactly what to do to make it stop and . . . I GET AN ERROR MESSAGE SAYING CHIZTOGMALIFRY DOGGLE DOODAH RATCHET, TOUCH THAT MENU AND DIE. Raphael is coming again on Thursday. For this among other things.
Tonight’s interesting IE error message has disappeared. That’s the good thing. But every web address now goes on for about a mile and a half. It should be, for example, robinmckinleysblog.com, not robinmckinleysblog.com/?ezekielGRINCH!!Vladgormenghast~2.45qh ZORGliarliarpantsonfire+/-stupidbloodyfrelling=ARRRRRGH/?#094gx2% . . . Maybe the laptop is just jealous that the printer is getting too much attention?
Oh, and further to yesterday’s fascinating tale . . . my new chequebook arrived with the wrong name printed on the cheques. They’ve got it right on the frelling address . . . BUT THEY’VE GOT IT WRONG ON THE CHEQUES. This makes those transferring-bank-details phone calls even more stomachache-inducing.†† And is the name the same on the new account, Mrs Dickinson? Er—yes—er—well, it will be. What’s that you are saying, Mrs Dickinson? NOTHING. NOTHING. YES, IT’S THE SAME NAME.†††
Let me leave you with something that the fabulous gryphyn found for our delectation and delight.
Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee. . . .
* * *
* Which is probably why I fell down and rolled over for the Battersea Dogs and Cats Home http://www.battersea.org.uk/ begging person when he knocked on my door and started telling me how much it costs to save critters. I KNOW. I ALREADY GIVE MONEY TO THE DOGS TRUST. http://www.dogstrust.org.uk/ Well, now I give money to the Battersea lot too. He totally had me^ as soon as he asked me if any of the hellpack are rescues. Um . . . no . . . I am a bad person. Fine, he says, sign here.
^ Possibly also because I was out in the garden frelling watering and hating that almost as much as PRINTERS. I have barely done any GARDENING in weeks because I’m wasting so much time WAAAAAAATERING.+ So I’m busy feeling guilty about all my neglected plants too.
+ Someone, I think on the forum, suggested getting one of those leaky-hose watering systems installed. Not unless SHADOWS is a major best-seller. Even the low-tech# versions cost kind of a lot.## And I’d still be watering all the stuff in front by hand. And complaining.
# That evil word again
## Do it MYSELF? You’re joking, right? I, who can’t weed without sticking the trowel in my hand at least once, and who can’t water without pouring water all over my feet?
** And screaming
*** with its ever-so-charming sound effects
† I have no idea if it works. Skype? Me? Are you kidding? But it’s one of those things your publisher thinks you should have, like having a flu jab every winter just in case, which I don’t either. Have. A flu jab.
†† Note that Credit Card Diabolus in Musica’s queue is still twenty minutes long today. Have I mentioned that my other credit card answered the phone in ten seconds, after a negligible battering by a robot voice? I have written Diabolus an email. They haven’t answered. Surprise. I am warming up to write a letter to the charity Diabolus is fronting, or maybe it’s the other way around. You want my .00000000002 pence worth every time I buy something? THEN DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR BANK.
††† Well, it’s the same person. It’s the same negligible income.
Be sure to set your meeting times with your advisor at the same time as some activity you wish to avoid. That way you can truthfully beg off by saying you have a prior engagement.
::falls down laughing::
The prior does sound very scary! are you going to share some more about your meeting with him?
It would help if he were shorter. I was thinking that there is already Scary Man at Forza** but at least he’s short. SO I SCARE EASILY. THIS IS NOT NEWS. But even in the interests of witnessing which is another awkward part of this Christianity package deal I’m not sure that aside from privacy issues there’s much to tell you that would make sense in public: one on one tends to be that way for a reason. Oh, well, speaking of awkward and public: one of the things we talked quite a bit about is community. This is another thing that walking across that threshold—or being prodded over it by a Son of God who feels you’ve been goofing off long enough—lands you in. Community. It’s not that there aren’t legitimate vocations for walling yourself up in a narrow cell and spending the rest of your life praying and having bread and gruel poked through a slot at intervals*** but these are rare and it’s not what I have. I have the common or garden variety belief system endowment, which includes the belonging to a community requirement. Eep. Ugh. I don’t like people in groups. My natural lack of talent for relating in groups is of course enhanced, not to say aggravated, by doing something intensely self-involved and solitary for a living. New skills. Blugh. New frelling skills. So we talked about coping strategies.
Ah… you see, the faithful avoid Microsoft at all costs and worship at Apple!
You Apple-istas puzzle me. I have an iPhone and an iPad . . . and they’re just as frelling frelled as anything PC, just differently. Indeed, the archangels are coming tomorrow chiefly to strive with Astarte the iPad, not the PC laptop, which has mysteriously decided to work again, possibly because it heard me making the appointment with the angels. Which means I need to go to bed so I can perform some facsimile of functional awakeness before noon tomorrow . . .
* * *
* Also frelling frelling frelling frell. SUPERSHARP KNIVES ARE OVERRATED. Sure, the as one might say cutting edge professional chef with the magic wrists and the reputation, probably needs a supersharp knife for his angelhair cabbage or her baroque-candelabra cantelope—or the poor sweating sous-chef producing cucumber posies to disguise the fact that their delivery of tiger nuts and fractal cauliflower^ has been hijacked by harpies—but us ordinary oafs at home? I agree that blunt knives are a hazard because of the way they ricochet and gouge chunks out of the plaster/cupboard/your arm, but just manual-sharpener-quality sharp knives are splendidly adequate. I was ordering a bunch of standard kitchen-supply stuff from a web site shop I use about twice a year and since the arrival of Pav I seem to be spending an unholy amount of time chopping things and I had decided I would like a second little paring-or-thereabouts-sized knife. They had one of these supersharp things on sale so I bought the freller. It arrived in its own sheath. And it’s a good thing too since it cuts things from several feet away. You’re still getting the chicken out of the refrigerator and there’s a faint whistling noise and you’re bleeding. I need all these fingers in their original confinguration, thanks. You can’t wash it unless you want to turn your kitchen sponge or dishcloth into a mop head. You can nervously hold it under hot water for a while. And watch it trying to slice water. It hisses if I open the drawer it’s in. All I wanted was another paring knife. I probably need a special license if I want to dispose of this menace, and SAS operatives are expensive. Keeping critters is a never-ending saga of astonishment and peril.^^
^ http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/04/weird-vegetables_n_3210027.html#slide=2408323 May I just say I’ve only never heard of two of them, that I regularly eat most of them except samphire which is disgusting, I’m a dedicated fan of fractal cauliflower and sunchokes, and that I don’t miss fiddleheads at all?
^^ Like the fellow with twenty-four spikes in his face who came over to tell me how gorgeous Pav is and how much he likes bull terriers.+ Oh. Ah. Well, that’s nice. —Does he take them out at night? How does he EAT? What happens if he wants to kiss someone?++ Does sneezing hurt?
+ This encounter happened in the New Arcadia churchyard. There was a group of blokes chatting. I didn’t look at the other ones.
++ They run away?
** At least I didn’t bleed on any bell ropes tonight. Or at least I didn’t get caught bleeding on any bell ropes tonight.
*** One hopes that there is sufficient allowance and arrangement for certain refuse and debris egress as well. I still worry about laundry.
This is not going to be my most organised blog post.
I had my first meeting with my new SPIRITUAL DIRECTOR today. Scary.
And, from the sublime to the ridiculous, I’ve just wasted over an hour wrestling with frelling frelling FRELLING Microsoft Outlook, which has (apparently) decided it’s not speaking to America. Eh, what do you want with those colonials? it says, shuffling its component crapware. —YOU’RE AN AMERICAN PROGRAMME, I reply. YOU’RE A CRUMMY AMERICAN PROGRAMME BUT YOU’RE AN AMERICAN PROGRAMME. PROGRAM. WHATEVER.
Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries, it responds. America is not on the menu today. Go away.*
ARRRRRRRRGH. I don’t even know how long it would have taken me to notice except that I was supposed to talk to Hannah tonight after I got home from my FIRST MEETING WITH MY NEW SPIRITUAL DIRECTOR. I’d hurtled a startlingly wide variety of hellcritters—the tireder I am, the more of them there are, I’ve noticed this often—and was creating critter dinner. Hannah emailed to check we were still on** and I emailed back that we were . . . and then it was fifteen minutes past when she should have rung and she hadn’t, so I emailed her again, and five minutes after that I received another email from her saying that evidently I wasn’t there*** and we’d have to reschedule . . . whereupon I frantically phoned her while discovering, phone tucked into my shoulder to leave my hands free, that my emails to her were still sitting in my outbox. With every other email to America I’ve written in the last twenty-four hours. ARRRRRRRRRRGH. And none of them will open so I could, perhaps, paste them in new windows or send them by GM-enhanced pigeon post or telepathy or something because Outlook won’t let me open them, claiming that it has ALREADY BEGUN SENDING THEM. In some cases twenty-three hours ago.
And here I thought it was trying to be a good day. The temperature has dropped enough for all of us to throw open all our windows and start as it were feverishly fanning since it’s supposed to get hot again almost immediately—and a little of that rain would be nice†—but at least the idea of putting on long trousers to go to my first meeting with my spiritual director didn’t make me cry.
So I’ve been at this Christianity lark for ten months now. The first eight months or so were all about the run up to Lent and Easter—Christmas is fine, Christmas is all jolly, except for the long shadow of events to come—Easter, I was worried about Easter. But I got through that and . . . gleep. It’s like looking up from picking your way down a very narrow stony path with a chasm on one side and dragons on the other and realising that it’s not just dragons and bottomless ravines but you’re lost in a universe-sized jungle AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU’RE GOING. Where does the narrow stony path go? Is that where you want to go? Is there a beautiful sunset and a cup of tea at the end of it or a larger dragon?
The monks have a little box tucked into a corner of one of their web site pages saying that they offer spiritual direction and to get in touch if you are interested. I read this to mean if you’re another monk or a monk-novice or a priest or a serious plugged-in type Christian but Aloysius said that no, they took ordinary clueless kittle-cattle as well.†† Oh. And he encouraged me to contact them—write to the abbot, he said.
I wrote—emailed—the abbot. And he emailed by return frelling electron saying that he was about to be gone for a fortnight but to contact the prior.
Ah. The prior. Yes. Hmm.
I’m afraid of the prior. When Aloysius took me to the abbey for the first time last autumn to prove that the monks were friendly and that the public was welcome, the prior was having a rant about some piece of the world that did not work properly. I listened to him and thought yes, totally, you’re right and . . . is there possibly a small dark hole I could crawl into before your fiery eye falls on me?
You can see where this is going, right? Ultimately the abbot decided that the correct spiritual director for me is . . . the prior.
I’ve been sort of terrifiedly looking forward to today. But he didn’t singe me or anything. I’m exhausted but . . . more than a little inspired. So I guess it is a good day. But Outlook is still a rabid rotting ratbag.
* * *
* Ithilien wrote
Give me SHADOWS and go away.
I didn’t say that! Although I could have thought it rather loudly…
Very loudly! Very, very loudly! Not that I MINDED! If you do it right your books are MUCH more interesting than you are!
For the record, SHADOWS is even more fabulous than all previous snippets led me to believe. Y’all should totally go and pre-order it now.
^ Note that she’s safely in Greenland. I can’t hold a gun to her head or anything.+
+ Although it may be true that I’m holding her grandmother’s opal and peacock feather brooch hostage. Never mind how I acquired it.
** Which is my opportunity to pull myself together and say, oh! Yes! Of course! as if I was expecting it. If I don’t talk to Hannah for more than a week I start feeling flimsy and as if I have pieces missing, but I am notorious even to myself for writing things dutifully in my diary and then forgetting to look at my diary.
*** Ie I hadn’t looked at my diary again
† Mrs Redboots
You either sleep very soundly or are in the wrong part of the UK! It was absolutely sheeting down in the middle of the night here in the Capital, quite literally a solid wall of water! And lots and lots of lovely thunder, and I think there was lightning, too – funny how it penetrates closed eyelids – but I was trying to go to sleep, having been rudely awakened by rain beating in on me so I had to sit up and close the windows.
We haven’t had a spot of rain. A speckle, a mote, an atom. Stop selfishly keeping it all up there in London.
† This may not have been his exact phrase.