not closed down altogether from motives of economy.
Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by
remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a
window-pane for two years.
'Of course it's only because Tom isn't home,' said Mrs. Parsons
vaguely.
The Parsons" flat was bigger than Winston's, and dingy in a different
way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the place had
just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta --
hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts
turned inside out -- lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a
litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On the walls were
scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster
of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the
whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which
-- one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say how -- was
the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone
with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the
military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.
'It's the children,' said Mrs. Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive
glance at the door. 'They haven't been out today. And of course--'
She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The
kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which
smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and e