The Mystery of Spontaneous Human Combustion

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There are pictures available for Spontaneous Human Combustion, but I’d rather not post them here. Readers might find them too upsetting.

In Charles Dickens’ novel, Bleak House, one of the characters, for no apparent reason, bursts into flame and is almost totally consumed–without setting fire to his room. Dickens based the incident on a real case, in Italy, that was reported in 1731.

“Spontaneous human combustion” is a mystery, it doesn’t happen often enough to generate a theory, there is no accepted explanation of it. Somehow, a human being catches fire–“from the inside out,” it often seems to police investigators–and although fantastically high temperatures must be achieved, to reduce human flesh and bone to ashes, usually the person’s surroundings–typically a bed or a chair–survive in reasonably good condition. Sometimes even clothes survive. Sometimes the victim’s legs and lap remain, with everything above the waist totally consumed. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spontaneous_human_combustion)

Two recent cases:

In 2010, in Ireland, a man burned to ashes indoors. The coroner found “no adequate explanation” for this and conceded it to be Spontaneous Human Combustion.

In 2017, in London, a man burst into flame while walking down the sidewalk. Passersby put out the fire, but he died the next day in the hospital. In the coroner’s view the fire was “an accident” probably caused by the victim trying to light a cigarette as he walked–although most people would surely pause while they did that.

SHC is often, but not always, linked to habitual consumption of lots of alcoholic beverages.

But in truth, we have no explanation for it.

Hell Day (Again)

Image result for images of frazzled cat

I’ve got the doctor tomorrow, so I had to write tomorrow morning’s posts today, and then had to write this morning’s posts, and then my Newswithviews column, and then came a couple of hours’ worth of paperwork involving Aunt Joan’s inconsequential estate…

So I went to the bank to get a bunch of papers there, and then to the accountant to deliver a bunch of papers to him, and get asked a lot of questions that I had no idea how to answer–and it’s still not finished, more papers yet to obtain, more forms to fill out–

Pardon me for screaming.

Charles Dickens wasn’t kidding, or even exaggerating, when he wrote Bleak House, the story of the havoc wrought on a lot of people’s lives by an estate that just never can get tied up and settled. We’ve got our own Bleak House right here, and it’s wearing us out.

I can’t imagine what they’d be doing to us if my aunt had actually left us any money.