The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was all around/ It cracked and growled and roared and howled/ like noises in a swound. Ancient Mariner
There is frost outside as I write. Not as bad as the poor old mariner experienced. (Why would the ancient mariner make an indifferent goalkeeper? “He stoppeth one of three.) Never mind. Look at Sir Ranulf. In all his pictures he looks cold. He should wear a hat more often. His wife used to organise his expeditions…to this pole and that pole…on foot…in the cold…on his own… Did he not begin to get suspicious? (A diminutive knight arrived at an Alpine inn in a blizzard and riding a Saint Bernard dog. “Come in, come in, ” said mein host,”I wouldn’t turn a knight away on a dog like this.”) Someone should do something to help these poor frosty knights. After one of Sir Ranulf’s expeditions he amputated some frostbitten toes with a Black and Decker. Toes are not renewable. Which reminds me. I had a neat little Black and Decker angle grinder. I wonder what happened to it.
I thought of Sir Ranulf and the mariner the other night as I listened to the orchestra tooling up to play the Prelude to Wagner’s Parcifal. That’s Sir Percival. Percy to his friends. Seven double basses, six celloes, tympani, strings and sounding brass. What a racket! I almost swounded(?) with the noise. They settled down when the conductor arrived to restore order. (Did you hear about the bus-conductor who murdered his passengers by pushing them off the bus? After three attempts to execute him in the electric chair, they had to let him go. Three strikes and you’re out. At his news conference where he announced his book deal and film option, he admitted to being a bad conductor.)
This brings me, of course, to cryonics, back in the news again. It will be big news in years to come, perhaps centuries, when all the frosted cryogenically preserved people wake up and are cured of whatever killed them, ailments like old age. Maybe they will come back in miraculously rejuvenated bodies instead of the ones they left in. I know that athletes swear by cryotherapy…aaagh!… but they’re held together anyway by sticky plasters. Can it reverse fifty years of wear and tear and overindulgence? That electricity sub-station went on the blink last Christmas, for four and a half days. It was hell. No TV or hot meals. Even the phones died. We were forced to fall back on conversation and sociability. Even jokes. And wine. (Herve, the Belgian, the butt of French and Dutch jokes, had an infallible method of identifying wine that had been adulterated with anti-freeze. It was a big scandal a few years ago. “I put ze bottles in ze freezaire. (He spoke Belgian.) Ze bottles zat do not burst, are ze good ones.”)
I heard a man on the radio explaining how it is done. Your blood and bodily fluids are replaced with anti-freeze, presumably before you die. Then you are encased in a capsule surrounded by liquid nitrogen, which is kept at a low temperature for many years or centuries. This is done using electricity. You pay your bill in advance….See sub-station outage above.
This arrived the other day. Fair warning. We once lost a freezer full of food because some idiot unplugged it to make use of a Black and Decker and forgot to plug it back in again. Rigorous investigation suggested that I might have had some part in the disaster. We were unaware of the danger until my great-great-grandfather clambered out in a wraith of liquid nitrogen, roaring for shpuds and butthermilk. He asked for a lend of a loan of my Black and Decker. The food was ruined too. I had to speak sternly to him about scattering toes all over the place. That’s the last time I’ll lend him any power tools. We had the divil of a job to get him back inside. “And don’t touch any of that wine!”
I don’t like the cold. I don’t want to join Walt Disney and other immortalsin Martian-style capsules high in the mountains. I don’t want to come back and have to turn my great-great-grandchildren out of my house. I can’t even remember where I left that angle grinder. National Geographic informs me that there are frozen sub-terranean glaciers on Mars. Freezing is mooted as an option for intergalactic travel. I’m not going there. Walt should have gone to Mars or even Pluto (family discount.) Pluto is a dwarf planet now. Why is there no Planet Happy or Goofy or Sneezy? I would definitely avoid Sneezy. No, I think I’ll go for the full Mahatma Gandhi on the Dorn of Shennick so that the tide will clean the place up afterwards. Probably need planning permission.
Apologies in advance to our intrepid Winter swimmers, The Frosties, for any adulteration of the sea water after the tide comes back.