Free Will Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House

Yesterday I had the absolutely delightful experience of lunching with a friend of home-town soul-sister JoryJ. Her friend Cathey L. is a Wellesley College classmate, '69, who has had two long stints of living in london with her husband and kids, one of whom graduated from the American School in London a few years back.

Cathey has been diligent in emailing and phoning me until we could come up with a mutually agreeable date. Yesterday she was slated to be at home all day, waiting for a repairman. It was a good opportunity for me to drop in, she said.

A tube ride to Kensington High Street delivered me right to the area where the Whole Foods Market is located. I had heard rumours of its existence, but did not quite know where it was located. Now we will be able to order our Thanksgiving turkey! Wandering through a few streets did not produce the desired result of arrival at my destination, so I asked directions of one of my two favorite categories of People Who Actually Might Know How to Get One Un-Lost: a Westminster Council Street-sweeper. These are usually older men with a broom and a wheelbarrow, invariably with iPod earphones on. Once you get their attention, they are happy to attempt to help you. (the second category of helpful direction-givers are Postmen, if one can get over the shock of seeming them in a New York Yankees baseball cap).

I was on Kensington Court, and needed Kensington Square. The helpful sweeper knew just how to direct me with the minimal number of turns. As I approached the target address, I passed the Malta High Commission, and then arrived at a house with a Blue Plaque. These are historical markers affixed to the outsides of builidings, and designate which famous author, scientist, artist, statesperson, etc. lived their, their birth and death dates, and the dates of residence, if known.

This particular blue plaque stated that "John Stuart Mill" lived here. There was a lovely garden full of blue lobelia. (see photo)

Lunching with Cathey and her visiting 87-year-old mother, a former computer-science teacher, was delightful. I also had a chance to meet Matilda the black cat, and to offer my services as a cat-sitter. The humans talked politics (not hard to do in this US election season) the economy, the American School, kids and colleges, Wellesley dorms and classmates, customer-"service" horror stories, etc.

Some time in 2007 her water-softener unit had broken, leaving a small flood in the downstairs flat. Two previous "service" calls over the past year yielded 1) diagnosing the problem, 2) having someone come months later with the wrong part, 3) being told they would order the part from the factory, 4) being told months later that the factory in Germany had burned down, and now 5) almost a year later, this appointment. Her "service" man rang the bell at 1:30, complained that there was no place to park, refused her offer to pay for his parking at the local covered garage ("it's not in my contract to park in a public garage") went away, (she tried to hold his tools and parts as collateral for his return, but he was too clever for her) and rang the bell again at 3:00pm, after he had finally found an on-street parking place. I left before it had been determined whether or not the part had been installed and the unit repaired, or whether "service" man left at 3:30 for his tea break. I think that Cathey wins the Customer Service Horror Story of the Year award (Long-Suffering American category).

Thank you Cathey, for your gracious hospitality!

In honor of the day, I now share with you some of the lyrics to The Philosopher's Drinking Song, as presented by the Department of Philosophy at the University of Wallamalloo, Australia (really by Monty Python)

"Oh.... John Stuart Mill of his own free will with a half a pint of shandy was particularly ill;
Plato they say could stick it away, half a crate of whiskey every day;
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle;
Hobbes was fond of his dram;
and Rene Descartes was a drunken fart: "I drink therefore I am".

There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ye 'bout the raising of the wrist;
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed!"

It's sad, I know, that I still remember this much of the song (there is another verse). I used to have a poster in my Wellesley dorm room with a cartoon of John Cleese as an Australian Outback-er and all of the lyrics.

Cheers!