Professor Quillibrace knew something was wrong the moment Mr Blottisham entered carrying a large roll of blue fabric.
Not a notebook.
Not a newspaper.
Fabric.
"Good heavens."
"Good afternoon, Professor."
"What," asked Professor Quillibrace carefully,
"...is that?"
Blottisham looked surprised.
"Spacetime."
A long silence followed.
Miss Stray lowered her book.
"I think," she said quietly,
"...this promises to be an unusually educational afternoon."
Professor Quillibrace removed his spectacles.
"No."
"No?"
"That is not spacetime."
Blottisham looked genuinely puzzled.
"But physicists keep telling us spacetime is a fabric."
"They do."
"So I bought some."
Professor Quillibrace closed his eyes.
"I was afraid," he murmured,
"that someone eventually would."
Miss Stray examined the roll.
"It is rather attractive."
"Thank you."
"What is it?"
"Cotton."
Professor Quillibrace sighed.
"At least it is not polyester."
Blottisham began unrolling the cloth across the Senior Common Room floor.
"What," asked Professor Quillibrace,
"...are you doing?"
"I thought we might investigate gravity."
"With haberdashery?"
"It seemed the obvious place to begin."
The blue fabric now stretched almost from one wall to the other.
Blottisham stood back proudly.
"There."
Professor Quillibrace regarded it.
"It appears to be a blanket."
"It is spacetime."
"It is a blanket."
Miss Stray smiled.
"I suspect it is about to become both."
Blottisham placed a heavy dictionary in the centre.
The fabric sagged.
"There!"
he announced triumphantly.
"Gravity."
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"A familiar demonstration."
"So spacetime bends."
"In the model."
Blottisham frowned.
"What do you mean, 'in the model'?"
"The blanket is representing something."
"Oh."
A pause.
"So where is the real fabric?"
Professor Quillibrace looked upwards.
Not towards the ceiling.
Towards patience.
"There is no actual fabric."
"But everyone says there is."
"No."
"They say spacetime behaves as though..."
Blottisham interrupted.
"...like fabric."
"Precisely."
Miss Stray leaned forward.
"And now we have reached the interesting part."
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"What happens when we forget the words 'as though'."
Blottisham looked at the blanket.
"So there are no threads."
"No."
"No weave."
"No stitching."
"No hem."
"No manufacturer."
"No."
Blottisham looked mildly disappointed.
"Then why call it fabric?"
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"Because metaphors borrow familiar experience."
"They help us imagine unfamiliar ideas."
"But they always leave something behind."
Miss Stray picked up one corner of the blanket.
"What does fabric do well?"
"It bends."
"It stretches."
"It can be distorted."
"Excellent."
"And what does it not do well?"
Blottisham looked thoughtful.
"It has edges."
"Yes."
"It can tear."
"Yes."
"It wrinkles."
"Yes."
"It can be folded."
"Yes."
He looked suddenly alarmed.
"Professor..."
"Yes?"
"If spacetime were really fabric..."
Professor Quillibrace visibly braced himself.
"...who irons it?"
Miss Stray laughed so suddenly that she nearly dropped her teacup.
Professor Quillibrace pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Nobody irons spacetime."
"So it is permanently creased?"
"No."
"But black holes..."
Blottisham continued,
"...surely leave terrible wrinkles."
Professor Quillibrace looked at the ceiling again.
"I find myself wondering..."
he said slowly,
"...whether the history of science has adequately prepared us for this conversation."
Miss Stray smiled.
"I think it has prepared us perfectly."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Because Mr Blottisham has discovered something."
Professor Quillibrace looked sceptical.
"What?"
"The demonstration works because it resembles fabric."
"Yes."
"But if we continue asking fabric questions..."
"We eventually leave physics..."
"...and enter haberdashery."
Blottisham looked pleased.
"So that tells us where the metaphor ends."
Professor Quillibrace stopped.
A long pause.
"Actually..."
he admitted,
"...it rather does."
The room fell quiet.
Miss Stray walked slowly around the blanket.
"It occurs to me that metaphors are rather like borrowed coats."
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"Go on."
"They fit well enough for the journey."
"Yes."
"But eventually one notices that the sleeves are too short."
Professor Quillibrace laughed.
"I wish I had said that."
Blottisham was still studying the blanket.
"I have one last question."
Professor Quillibrace looked cautious.
"Only one?"
"If spacetime is curved..."
"Yes?"
"...where exactly is the corner?"
Silence.
Miss Stray looked down into her teacup.
Professor Quillibrace looked out of the window.
Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon landed on the college lawn.
It seemed, for reasons known only to itself, remarkably content.
Finally Professor Quillibrace spoke.
"My dear Blottisham..."
"Yes?"
"I believe..."
"...you have just discovered the precise point at which a useful metaphor resigns."
The three stood looking at the blue blanket stretched across the floor.
It had done exactly what it was supposed to do.
It had helped them imagine curvature.
It had also persuaded them, briefly, to imagine seams, stitching, wrinkles and corners.
The blanket had succeeded.
Then it had failed.
Exactly as every good metaphor eventually must.
As they rolled it up again, Miss Stray smiled.
"I think we have learned something."
"What?"
asked Blottisham.
"A metaphor is rather like your blanket."
"How so?"
"It covers a great deal."
Professor Quillibrace picked up his coat.
"...but one should never mistake it for the furniture."
The blue fabric disappeared into its roll.
The room looked entirely ordinary once more.
Which, everyone silently agreed, was probably for the best.
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