Don't you think you should have a shower? the one-eyed editor said to himself. You haven't had one since Camp started.

There mightn't be any hot water, he told himself.

Complain to the Conference president about it, he told himself with a twinkle in the only eye which was capable of a twinkle.

I already have. And I'm proud of it. I was the first person to complain to the president this Camp.

Did you tell him you hadn't actually had a shower to find out if there was any hot water?

Ah, no. That detail escaped me.

Well, I've not found any problems with the hot water in my showers, he said to himself.

I did go to have a shower the day before yesterday, he said to himself.

What happened? he asked himself.

The showers were being cleaned. But I gave those cleaners a piece of my mind.

But if the cleaners get abuse like that, they won't do the job again next year. You'll have to do it.

Couldn't be hard.

They clean the toilets for three hours at two in the morning.

But they have the rest of the day off, he mused to himself.

No, they clean them again for an hour three times a day. They do six hours cleaning a day, and don't personally get a penny for it.

But they have the joy of a job well done.

And they have the misery of having to put up with one-eyed people like you, he said to himself.