As I Please
Tribune, 7 February 1947
I have been looking through Mr Peter Hunot’s Man About the House,
published a month or two back by the Pilot Press. Books telling you how to
do household repairs are fairly numerous, but I think this is about the best
I have seen. The author gathered his experience the hard way by taking over
a nearly derelict house and making it habitable with his own hands. He thus
concentrates on the sort of difficulties that do actually arise in real life,
and does not, like the author of another book in my possession, tell you how
to mend Venetian blinds while ignoring electrical fittings. I looked up all
the domestic calamities that I have had to deal with during the past year,
and found all of them mentioned, except mice, which perhaps hardly come
under the heading of decorations and repairs. The book is also simply
written and well illustrated, and takes account of the difficulty nowadays
of getting hold of tools and materials.
But I still think that there is room for a very large, comprehensive book of this type, a sort of dictionary or encyclopaedia with every conceivable household job tabulated under alphabetical headings. You would then be able to look up Tap, how to stop a dripping, or Floorboards, causes of squeaking in, with the same certainty of getting the right answer as when you look up madeira cake or Welsh rarebit in Mrs Beeton’s cookery book. The time was when the amateur handyman, with his tack hammer and his pocketful of rawl-plugs, was looked on as a mere eccentric, a joke to his friends and a nuisance to his women-folk. Nowadays, however, you either do your repairs yourself or they don’t get done, and most of us are still remarkably helpless. How many people even know how to replace a broken sash-cord, for instance?
As Mr Hunot points out, much of the tinkering that now goes on would be unnecessary, or would be much easier, if our houses were sensibly built. Even so simple a precaution as putting fuse boxes in get-at-able places would save a lot of nuisance, and the miserable business of putting up shelves could be greatly simplified without any extra materials or radical change in methods. I hear rumours that the new houses now being built will have the pipes so placed that they will not freeze, but surely this cannot be true. There will be a snag somewhere, and the annual freeze-up will happen as usual. Burst water-pipes are a part of the English winter, no less than muffins or roasted chestnuts, and doubtless Shakespeare would have mentioned them in the song at the end of Love’s Labour’s Lost, if there had been water-pipes in those days.
It is too early to cheer, but I must say that up to date the phenomena of the freeze-up have been less unpleasant than those of 1940. On that occasion the village where I lived was not only so completely snowed up that for a week or more it was impossible to get out of it, or for any food vans to get in, but every tap and pump in the village froze so hard that for several days we had no water except melted snow. The disagreeable thing about this is that snow is always dirty, except just after it has fallen. I have noticed this even in the high peaks of the Atlas mountains, miles from human habitation. The everlasting snow which looks so virginal, is in fact distinctly grimy when you get close to it.
the time when Sir Stafford
Cripps came back from India, I heard it remarked that the Cripps offer
had not been extended to Burma because the Burmese would have accepted it. I
don’t know whether any such calculation really entered into the minds of Churchill
and the rest. It is perfectly possible: at any rate, I think that
responsible Burmese politicians would have accepted such an offer, although
at that moment Burma was in process of being overrun by the Japanese. I also
believe that an offer of Dominion status would have been gladly accepted if
we had made it in 1944 and had named a definite date. As it is, the
suspicions of the Burmese have been well roused, and it will probably end by
our simply getting out of Burma on the terms least advantageous to both
When H. G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau was reprinted in the Penguin Library, I looked to see whether the slips and misprints which I remembered in earlier editions had been repeated in it. Sure enough, they were still there. One of them is a particularly stupid misprint, of a kind to make most writers squirm. In 1941 I pointed this out to H. G. Wells, and asked him why he did not remove it. It had persisted through edition after edition ever since 1896. Rather to my surprise, he said that he remembered the misprint, but could not be bothered to do anything about it. He no longer took the faintest interest in his early books: they had been written so long ago that he no longer felt them to be part of himself. I have never been quite sure whether to admire this attitude or not. It is magnificent to be so free from literary vanity. And yet, what writer of Wells’s gifts, if he had had any power of self-criticism or regard for his own reputation. would have poured out in fifty years a total of ninety-five books, quite two thirds of which have already ceased to be readable?
The Estate of Eric Blair
Reproduced here under educational Fair Use law