a feW wordS from the acting inquisItor

[IED0DXM%OAC.UCLA.EDU@MITVMA.MIT.EDU]

     The surrounding community is not particularly charming.  Welling
is at first sight a decidedly ordinary suburb. The Wimpy's is small
and makeshift Formica. A laundromat, a sleepy post office. The Welling
Woolworth's stocks one or two of her albums, but the display in the
window advertises Rick Astley.
     Moving past that modest centre of town, you pass under the
railroad bridge on your way toward Mecca (Tibet or Jedda).  There, in
the shadow of the bridge, crookedly stands an aging phonebooth:
fire-engine red, the refuge of a large, slow old spider. On the right
begins a long train of identikit houses, on the left the occasional
secreterial supply shop and tea-house.
     Finally you come upon The Intersection: Wickham Street looms on
the left. Now that's more like it: the hum of mopeds and milk-lorries
fades right away, and you're left alone in the shadowy stillness of
East Wickham Farm. No other structures share this block, so far as you
can see. Lining the length of the street is a plain wooden fence which
just manages to contain a dense overgrowth of trees and ivy. Seen with
difficulty through this is the peak of a Tudor roof: you have arrived.
     The quiet is complete once you pull the gate shut behind you; in
front now, at the end of a short tunnel of pathway hewn out of the
riot of autumny vines, you see a surprisingly small cottage.  The
windows are small and mullioned, the door and its bell sweetly atilt.
This is an old structure, so certified by the Ministry of Historical
Buildings.
     Mr. John Carder Bush is there to greet you with a quiet,
chocolaty voice and a zen calm that seem fully part of the house. With
a politeness as though to confirm the sanctity of Idea he draws you
into the tiny suite of front rooms. Before you climbs a darkly
gleaming staircase, to the right some sort of parlor, but you can't
see more for your host has led you to the left, where The Spinet holds
silently forth over electric-heater-filled hearth and doilied couches.
One pleasantly threadworn Isfahan carpet keeps company with an
unthreatening lionskin at your feet. And on the low mantle you can see
some family snapshots: a couple of grandchildren, mom and dad, God
Incarnate at age 12 or so...