A tale of two conveniences

My first convenience is that which used to be operated by Epsom & Ewell Borough Council at the end of Ewell High Street and which has now be sold off to contribute to a solution to the housing crisis. We await with interest notice of the price which the speculator hopes to realise from his speculation.

I notice in passing that the day for this sort of stand-alone facility seems to be passing, with, for example, the large underground affair in the centre of Bath having taken on a second life as a night club. Back in Epsom, during office hours the council offers facilities at Bourne Hall, Epsom Library and Epsom Town Hall. During shopping hours there is the Ashley Centre. Otherwise, one relies on the licensed trade, with Wetherspoon's being a particularly good provider. I understand that McDonald's and Nando's do their bit too, but I never use them. When in town proper, I have taken to hotels, museums and art galleries, often also civilised places in which to take light refreshment. One pays more, but it is worth it. I wonder if the section of the council bureaucracy which worries about such matters has survived the cuts?

My second convenience is the short story by Flann O'Brien called 'The Hard Life', as it happens the second story I have read by the chap (more of the first in due course). The tone of this one should not be judged by the last word, 'vomit', but there is a fair amount of booze & fags in the story, entirely appropriate for a writer who was a hard drinker, dying of it at the age of 55.

The story of someone growing up with his uncle in Dublin, in the years running up to 1910, the year before the author was born. It is indeed a very funny story, as advertised. One thread is the mail order outfit invented by the narrator's enterprising brother and which peddles all kinds of self-help manuals invented out of public libraries. Another thread is knocking the church, with the crude teaching methods of the Christian Brothers getting a good airing. And then there is the mystery of the pious project of the uncle, which turns out to be a project for the provision of public conveniences for the use of the ladies of Dublin. The story more or less ends with the uncle importuning the outraged Pope, with whom the enterprising brother has wangled an audience.

A tale of a time and place which has vanished. A writer who very much reminds me of Hašek with his immortal Švejk, writing perhaps twenty years before O'Brien got under way. I wonder if the Irish writer knew of his illustrious forebear from the continent?

PS: the rather crude blue blot being data protection. Thinking with my fingers, I suppose I could have done rather better by passing the picture through Powerpoint rather than through the Snipping Tool, with the former having a lot more in the way of graphics features.