The Wilt Alternative Read Online Free PDF Page A

performance,' said Wilt. 'Now if

you don't mind I want to see who wins...'
    But the quads took no notice and continued to hurl themselves about the room until Wilt was

driven to take refuge in the kitchen.
    'They'll never get anywhere if you don't take an interest in their dancing,' said Eva.
    'They won't get anywhere anyway if you ask me and if you call that dancing I don't. It's like

watching hippos trying to fly. They'll bring the bloody ceiling down if you don't look out.'
    Instead Emmeline banged her head on the fireguard and Wilt had to put a blob of Savlon on the

scratch. To complete the evening's miseries Eva announced that she had asked the Nyes round after

supper.
    'I want to talk to him about the Organic Toilet. It's not working properly.'
    'I don't suppose it's meant to,' said Wilt. 'The bloody thing is a glorified earth closet and

all earth closets stink.'
    'It doesn't stink. It has a composty smell, that's all, but it doesn't give off enough gas to

cook with and John said it would.'
    'It gives off enough gas to turn the downstairs loo into a death-chamber if you ask me. One of

these days some poor bugger is going to light a cigarette in there and blow us all to Kingdom

Come.'
    'You're just biased against the Alternative Society in general,' said Eva. 'And who was it who

was always complaining about my using chemical toilet cleaner? You were. And don't say you

didn't.'
    'I have enough trouble with society as it is without being bunged into an alternative one,

and, while we are on the subject, there must be an alternative to poisoning the atmosphere with

methane and sterilizing it with Harpic. Frankly I'd say Harpic had something to recommend it. At

least you could flush the bloody stuff down the drain. I defy anyone to flush Nye's filthy

crap-digester with anything short of dynamite. It's a turd-encrusted drainpipe with a barrel at

the bottom.'
    'It has to be like that if you're going to put natural goodness back into the earth.'
    'And get food poisoning,' said Wilt.
    'Not if you compost it properly. The heat kills all the germs before you empty it.'
    'I don't intend to empty it. You had the beastly thing installed and you can risk your life in

the cellar disgorging it when it's good and ready. And don't blame me if the neighbours complain

to the Health Department again.'
    They argued on until supper and Wilt took the quads up to bed and read them Mr Gumpy for the

umpteenth time. By the time he came down the Nyes had arrived and were opening a bottle of

stinging-nettle wine with an alternative corkscrew John Nye had fashioned from an old

bedspring.
    'Ah, hullo Henry,' he said with that bright, almost religious goodwill which all Eva's friends

in the Self-Sufficiency world seemed to affect. 'Not a bad vintage, 1976, though I say it

myself.'
    'Wasn't that the year of the drought?' asked Wilt.
    'Yes, but it takes more than a drought to kill stinging-nettles. Hardy little fellows.'
    'Grow them yourself?'
    'No need to. They grow wild everywhere. We just gathered them from the wayside.'
    Wilt looked doubtful. 'Mind telling which side of the way you harvested this particular

cru?'
    'As far as I remember it was between Ballingbourne and Umpston. In fact, I'm sure of it.' He

poured a glass and banded it to Wilt.
    'In that case I wouldn't touch the stuff myself,' said Wilt handing it back. 'I saw them

cropspraying there in 1976. These nettles weren't grown organically. They've been

contaminated.'
    'But we've drunk gallons of the wine,' said Nye. 'It hasn't done us any harm.'
    'Probably won't feel the effects until you're sixty,' said Wilt, 'and then it will be too

late. It's the same with fluoride, you know.'
    And having delivered himself of this dire warning he went through to the lounge, now

rechristened by Eva the 'Being Room', and found her deep in conversation with Bertha Nye about

the joys and deep responsibilities of motherhood. Since the Nyes were childless