There is a deliciously dark Roald Dahl story, William and Mary in his collection Kiss Kiss which has resonated with me during the past few days.  As I glower at the piles of stuff in the house that I can no longer move to the places they belong and can do nothing to warm up my miserably cold (missing) left foot, I think of William’s disembodied eye floating in its enamel basin of tubes and liquid, narrowing with rage and frustration, as his wife puffs smoke into it.