But Gramsci was, still. It hadn't occured to him that food purveyors from the far north of University Avenue would make their way under cover of twilight each evening to seek out the single shower that nestles deep in the secret basement of the Beattle Building.
It wasn't as though there were no showers north of Jammie Steps. Last heard, no one had bombed the Sports Centre, despite its happy associations with generations of exam writers. And a plethora of showers could be found across in Leslie - better lit, more accessible, roomier. Why seek out the single, cramped, most hidden one, known only to initiates of a secret sect from which food purveyors were by definition excluded? Gramsci had no idea.
Aside from... uMalume!
"Still", Carnivorous Cow added, "he could at least bring his own towel! It's a bit much finding that the entire Beattie paper towel supply had been expended on his shower - and left in sodden lumps all over the floor, for SuperCare to pick up - with nary a red bin or latex gloves to facilitate the safe disposal of these high risk waste materials! Inflicting ones own high risk behaviour on others is really morally questionable!"
But Gramsci was still puzzled. Why did he not simply avail himself of the freely available condoms? uMalume at least had the excuse that his stocks had run out....?
The Cow shook her head sadly. "None to be had in Beattie!" she said. "And Arts is down to its last few, too. I think it's time to summon Mr Delivery for more."
Gramsci beamed. "Don't forget extra garlic on the pizza!"