I have come across this phrase in two Victorian novels. Dickens’s Bleak House and, if I remember correctly, George Eliot’s Middlemarch, or was it Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, I can’t remember. What must have happened is that either Eliot or Hardy copied Dickens, whose Bleak House predates the others, or it was a common, perhaps comic, phrase of the Victorian era. Whatever, I have appropriated the phrase and now use it liberally, for it is true of me. I like to do the same things all the time. I like the same routine on a Saturday morning, or any morning for that matter. In an Indian restaurant I always take Chicken Tandoori. I go to the gym on the same days every week and do practically the same workout only with unvarying variants. I never eat vegetables starting with the letter A. If you tickle my pressure points I will come out with the same pronouncements. I will try and herd most phenomena under the heading of hairdresser syndrome (the fact that hairdressers always have bad haircuts, that is, most people do the jobs they are least suited to do). I soak my feet in the bucket twice a week; Wednesday and Sunday. I never vary.

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