She swallowed the spider to catch the fly

But I don't know why she swallowed that fly. Oh, wait, yes I do.

Because as she was driving home from Staples, where she had had her computer's memory upgraded, the car window was open, because...

Her car's air conditioning doesn't work, because...

No, that's another story. And just kidding about the fly (though not about the air conditioning). What really happened was this:

She had her computer's memory upgraded from 128MB to 384MB, because...

That's the maximum the computer will take, because...

It's a four year old HP Pavilion. She had to upgrade the memory, because...

She had, after three days of dealing with spyware and worms and bears (Oh my!), discovered just how slow her computer could be (something about molasses and January), because...

Windows XP requires 256MB just for its own self. She had decided to upgrade from Windows 98 to Windows XP, because...

She had bought a flash drive, and even though the nice man at Staples had told her it would work with Windows 98, so long as she downloaded the driver files from the manufacturer's Web site, and even though she did that, it did not, in fact, work. She had decided to buy a USB flash drive, because...

She needed to copy a 166MB printer driver file from her computer at work to her computer at home, because...

She has dialup at home, and though she had tried three times, overnight, she couldn't manage successfully to download such a large file. She needed the 166MB printer driver file, because...

She wanted to use her friend Angela's printer, which she's holding onto while Angela spends the summer with a cult in California (a story I will, eventually, get around to telling you, Gentle Reader), because it's a fancy all-in-one printer, scanner, and copier, and far superior to her own Canon Bubblejet, which in any event needs a new ink cartridge, and so she decided it was better to invest $20 in a USB printer cable for Angela's printer (since there wasn't one among Angela's things; neither was there the CD that must have originally come with the printer, which would have negated the need to download the aforementioned 166MB file), than to invest $50 in a new ink cartridge just then.

Today, at long last, I can print. I can even scan photos. At least until Angela is uninculcated. And I have the coolest flash drive — it has a little blue light that flashes when you plug it in — and it works now, so I'll be able to use it to carry files back and forth to work when classes start in September. I am rather proud of myself for having hunted down and killed the Sasser worm (though I couldn't have done so without help from the Geek I Love). And I have what I hope has been an amusing story for you, Gentle Reader.

So let's review, shall we?

Two 128MB memory upgrades, plus installation: $167
McAfee Virus Scan 9.0: $81
Windows XP Professional: $168
San Disk Cruzer Titanium USB flash drive: $93
USB printer cable for HP PSC 1110 all-in-one: $23

(Total: $532)

Brand new Compaq Presario SR 1220NX with 512MB RAM and Windows XP Home Edition with Security Pack 2 installed, at Staples: $514

Finally understanding the meaning of the economist's term, "point of diminishing returns": Priceless!

Geek's Got My Back

No, there's no song by that title, but there ought to be.

The story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. was interrupted on Monday as a result of my having to deal with this undocumented feature of Windows XP:



Seems Sass's computer ingested the Sasser worm.

Please, do take a moment to appreciate the irony.

Now, here's how I've been occupying my time lo these past three days:

• Installed Windows XP. Marvelled that the installation went without incident. Even my Porsche Carrera wallpaper was unaltered.


• Realized I had spoken too soon when above Undocumented Feature began shutting down my computer every five minutes.


• Called Jack.


• Downloaded, installed, updated, and ran Microsoft Anti Spyware, Spybot, and Ad-Aware. Twice, each, for good measure. Cleaned up a lot of shit I didn't know was there, yet still the Undocumented Feature reappeared.


• Called Jack. Ranted about Microsoft.


• Considered re-installing DOS 5. Yes, I still have the disks.


• Remembered I no longer have a 5 1/4" floppy drive.


• Called Jack.


• Considered re-formatting C: drive.


• Bought, installed, updated, and ran McAfee Virus Scan 9.0. It found nothing.


• Tried to write. Undocumented Feature reappeared.


• Went to The Banknote. Had the pasta pescatore. And a couple of beers. Appreciated the addition of a Beck's tap.


• Called Jack.


• Downloaded, installed, and ran Microsoft Windows Malicious Software Removal Tool.

I've been online now for about twenty minutes and so far, knock wood, there's been no sign of the Undocumented Feature.

There are advantages to having the Biggest Ass at Big Ass American Software Company have your back.

Besides, I love it when he talks nerdy to me.

We're Almost There

Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part V
continued from Part IV

---

Saturday, July 2
British Airways flight 4023

Can somebody please explain to me how, exactly, word processing software can interfere with the landing of a plane?

Please.

Seriously.
* * *
Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part VI

Give me a ticket for an aeroplane

Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part IV
continued from Part III

---

Saturday, July 2, 2005
Glasgow airport

My flight from Glasgow to Bristol is delayed two hours, to 13:30, and it's a damned good thing, because if it hadn't been, I surely would have missed it. Though the flight from Toronto arrived bang on time, despite having left an hour late (How do they do that?), I was forced to collect my bags, clear customs, exit, then get back in line to check in for the BA flight.

THEY SAY: Baggage Reclaim
WE SAY: Baggage Claim

BA's agents wear hats. The women, that is. And mine (agent, not hat) has kindly given me a £5 voucher to spend anywhere my heart desires in the airport, on account of the flight being delayed.

I'm on a mission to get at least one bottle of single malt for AC, to add to his collection. He has 86 different brands of single malt. At the top of his list is Springbank 12 year, not, he repeats emphatically, NOT 10 year. He's told me it's highly unlikely I'll find that. The list is prioritized; the next two are Glentauchers and Glenturret, in that order.

I doubt the £5 voucher will aid in any significant way my mission, so I spend it at Starbucks instead. A grande latte, my usual purchase at this franchise, is £2.19 here.

Though it's noon in Glasgow, my body clock reads 7:00 and, furthermore, it points out, you've been awake all night. Is there no civilized protocol for crossing the Atlantic Ocean by air?

How was the flight, you ask?

There's no such thing as a good flight, really, is there? Unless you're, say, sitting in first class on the upper deck of a 747, on your way to San Francisco to go dancing at The Starlight Room on your birthday. But that's another story.

Let's see: Half an hour into the flight I dumped my salad, which I had just doused liberally with balsamic vinaigrette, into my lap. The flight was full. I was in a window seat, which I prefer, except when the woman next to me on the aisle is on the large side, and settles in for the night, making it difficult for me to get around her and out for a leg stretch. The man sitting in front of me was — sorry, what's the politically correct term here? — retarded. Not severely, but enough to be childlike in his behaviour: talking too loudly, pushing his seat all the way back, then bouncing in it. Utterly self-centred, as children are, but this man had no parent to gently correct his behaviour.

When, after rushing to claim my bag, then back to the check-in queue, after being told by a lovely BA agent that my flight would be delayed, I was so relieved I proceeded directly out the doors and lit up a cigarette. Afterwards, I considered whether to have a beer or a coffee.

Think what you will, but if you've ever done the trans-Atlantic overnight flight you know that when you've been up all night it may be morning, but since your body's already fucked up you can go either way.

Outside on the tarmac the first thing I notice is thick, white letters, two feet long, painted on the crosswalk, warning

LOOK RIGHT

I've been to the U.K. before, I know they insist on driving on the wrong side of the road, and so I understand the warning. I even appreciate their concern for those of us from, oh, every other country in the world where we drive on the right side of the road and as pedestrians before crossing the street look to our left. I wonder why we extend no such courtesy to them.

Back inside, I vote for the coffee, then do a little shopping to pass the time.

The shops are laden with plaid scarves, tams, shortbread cookies, and assorted knick knacks emblazened with family names. The olde clans have their own tartans, and their own mottos, most to do with battle. Unlike many Canadians, I have no Scottish roots. But Jack is Scottish, have I told you? All the way back, as far as he can trace it, on both sides of the family. Back to the Earls of Lennox.

A lot of people come here hunting for family. The retarded man on the plane was on his way to Glasgow for exactly that reason. I guess I can understand that; If my ancestors hadn't ancestored me for 200 years in a dirt poor landlocked rural country that no longer exists, maybe I'd go record hunting, too.

I might be descended from Catherine the Great.

I browse the family names of the alphabetically displayed bookmarks, paperweights, and keychains, looking for any that are familiar. I like to bring souvenirs home for my friends. But Lynne is French. AC is Jewish (and besides, he's getting the Scotch). Simon is English. Zee is... Polish, I think. Sparky is Irish. Mo, Iraqi. The Viking is, of course, a Viking. No Scots there. I think of my friend Gord, who is of Scottish heritage, but his family name is almost as unusual as Jack's; I don't see it. I don't believe I'll find anything with Jack's last name, because of the unusual spelling, but it can't hurt to look. I spot Foster, as in Carson T. Foster, and buy my favourite karaoke buddy a keychain.

Then I see it. The clan name that, while common when spelled with an O, is rarely spelled with an E — spelled with an E. It's on only one of the many knick knacks, a cheap plastic keychain. But it's the right name, and the motto makes a vow about protecting that which they love, which is likely a reference to land and country, but can be taken many ways, and so I buy it.

I wish that Jack had come with me. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him — he bought my plane ticket. But that's another story.
* * *Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part V

(Still) Under Construction

Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part III
continued from Part II

---

July 1, 2005
Canada Day

The irony of leaving Canada on Canada Day is not lost on me.

It's starting to look familiar: I'm sitting at the bar in the remote terminal, a building which feels in no way temporary, having a Heineken. I remember sitting here a year ago, at this same bar, waiting for a flight to London. This time, my flight is departing from gate 529, which happens to be right beside the bar.

It's a very nice bar. Cute red halogen lamps. Like I said, nothing about this place looks temporary.

It's 10:05. I have 40 minutes. I might have two Heinekens.

The bartender's nametag reads Jagdev. He looks Indian, and I am reminded of Mridul, whom I called this afternoon, but got his voice mail, and the ratfink didn't call me back. Well, it's a holiday, and I know he was off today, but still, all week at The Banknote he'd been telling me that he had something for me and that he had to give it to me before I left.

"A first class upgrade coupon?" I asked.

"Almost," he replied, "A pass for the Maple Leaf Lounge."

Hmn. Not quite the same thing. Still, I'd've taken it. Free beer is always preferable to a $6 Heineken.

There's a mural on the wall behind the bar, a black and white photograph of a Toronto street I recognize, though can't place. In the photo there is a sign for Giovanna Trattoria Pizzeria. I'm sure I've passed that place, and not long ago. I take a sip of my beer and study the photo for clues. Because of the mirrored bar, bottles, and other obstacles covering it, I can't tell whether the mural is a collage, or one large photo.

Jagdev notices my examination. "Go around the corner," he suggests. So I do.

It's not a collage. It's College Street. The photo wraps not just to the side of the bar, but all the way around the back. I recognize the block where Ciao Edie is.

I walk all the way around the bar, back to my seat and my beer. Jagdev is closing down. He asks me where I'm from, then where I'm going.

I tell him, then I tell him how it's crazy in T1, all the Air Canada domestic flights and international flights, checking in together, all through aisle C, while aisles D through... Z, maybe, are vacant. You could fire a cannon through the terminal and not hit anyone, unless you aimed it at aisle C. Seriously. The queue extended all the way back to aisle G. I stood in it for an hour before they pulled we Glaswegian bounds out to an express check-in desk.

That always happens. It makes me wonder why they make us queue up at all. Why not just herd us into a lounge area, then call us by flight to check in? It seems to me it'd save a lot of time.

Jagdev says something about what one should expect from $10/hour employees. I ask what does he mean. Seasonals, he says. Summer is high season to Europe. The agents are part timers; students.

Next year, maybe I'll meet with my advisors in February.

Yeah, I know, but it's cold there in July, too.

If I crane my neck I can see gate 529 without leaving the bar. A new departure time has been posted: 23:15.

Fuck.

I've missed last call. Jagdev has finished mopping the floor around me — he asked me to move just for a moment, then said I was welcome to stay at the bar — and has left.

I sip my Heineken as slowly as I can, and write.

At 10:50 they announce that the flight is ready for "pre-boarding."

What does that mean? How can you pre-board a flight? Either you board, or you don't board, don't you?
* * *
Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part IV

Under Construction

Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part II
continued from Part I

---

July 1, 2005
Canada Day

I'm in Terminal 1 at the Toronto airport, which I always think of as the Toronto airport, even though it was renamed to Pearson International many years ago, and even though there actually is another Toronto airport, the Island airport (which is actually called Toronto City Centre airport, though no one calls it that), which is a stone's throw from where I live. Literally. Well, OK, maybe a baseball's throw, and only if you can throw a baseball 400 feet, but it's close. Really close. But I can't fly to the U.K. from there, so I'm here at T1 waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to the "infield terminal" where I'll board my plane for Glasgow.

Terminal 1, you see, is still under construction. Though the new terminal opened just over a year ago, it still isn't finished, and some international flights, or maybe it's all international flights, I don't know, come and go from what used to be the cargo terminals, way out at the other end of the airport. The shuttle bus ride is almost twenty minutes. I remember from last year when I made the same trip, for the same reason.

When I have nothing to do but wait I can't help but read — anything around me. Here in the netherlands of the basement of the newly constructed but not yet finished T1 what I'm staring at is a sign which reads, "We appreciate your understanding during this interim time of construction and bussing."

Interim time? Isn't that unneccessarily redundant and repetitive?

I went to Bristol last July, too. It was my first time at the university that I hope will one day bestow upon me a doctor of philosophy degree; my first time meeting my advisors. Last year, I was excited about the trip; I was embarking on a new academic venture. I was keen to get started (not to mention, to get finished). I was highly motivated. And I had Jack waiting here in Toronto for me when I returned. But that's another story.

This year, I'm ambivalent. I feel like Maddie Hayes, when she finally agreed to go on a date with David Addison. That's what she said, then, too: I feel ambivalent.

This is not a vacation. I am not going there to have fun, and I certainly won't be relaxing. No, this trip is going to be more like... well, I think it's going to be something like when you get called into the principal's office for a stern talking-to.

I'm under construction everyone
So you'll have to mind the mess

On the one hand, I want to renew my commitment to my PhD; I want to refind that enthusiasm that I had last year; I want to rethink the thoughts I had when I thought I knew what I was thinking about my PhD about.

On the other hand, I'm afraid my advisors, whom I've steadfastly ignored since last October, will take one look at me — if they recognize me, that is — and say, "You are not cut out for this."

So I am ambivalent.

And in the mood to nitpick signs.

Inside the bus that will take me to the infield, the sign expresses the same apology, though in slightly abbreviated terms: "Thank you for your patience during this time of interim bussing." It's rendered in white plastic letters across the top of the window. Looks like they ran out of room. Or, perhaps, realized too late that they should have used a smaller font.

THEY SAY: coach
WE SAY: bus

Last year, as the shuttle bus pulled away from the building I realized it would take us straight past the old Terminal 1, the oh so tiny building that was once, about fifty years ago, the entire Toronto airport. That day in July, 2004, they were in the middle of knocking it down. It was dusk, but the crane with the great demolition ball was still swinging. I squeezed my way to the back of the bus as it drove past, so I could watch for as long as possible.

The old Terminal 1 is gone now.
* * *Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part III

One More Cup Of Coffee

Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part I

---

I'm leaving Bristol early tomorrow morning for Glasgow, where I hope to catch my connecting flight to Toronto, but I fear I might not make it because there's only an hour window, and what with the events of the last few days here in the U.K. — Live 8; the G8 summit and violent protests in Edinburgh; London winning the 2012 Olympics bid; terrorist attacks this morning; — I don't expect anything to be normal. But if my worst case scenario is having to stay the night in Glasgow, that won't be too bad. I hear they have quite the single malt collection in that country.

Three of my PhD buddies were here this week: Dale, Denise, and Hutch. Dale and Denise have already left for home. Hutch is here with me right now, at the next desk in the graduate students' research centre, writing up a report for his thesis advisor while I write to you, Gentle Reader. Hutch is planning to leave here tomorrow morning and spend a couple of days in London before his flight home.

He doesn't know what just happened there.

THEY SAY: tube station
WE SAY: subway station

The flat I'm staying in near the campus is lovely, clean, and fully equipped — it even has a washing machine — except there's no coffee maker. There's a jar of instant coffee in the cupboard, and a fancy electronic kettle, the likes of which I've never seen. Call me a snob but I won't drink instant coffee under any circumstances. Instant coffee is coffee to me in much the same way that Tang is orange juice, which is to say, not at all.

This place, it's like a whole other country.

THEY SAY: ring me
WE SAY: call me

So every morning I've had to leave the flat in search of coffee before the withdrawl headache sets in. I might be able to get one more cup of coffee before I go.

This morning I wandered to the local Sainsbury's, the East Filton Sainsbury's, and had the all day breakfast with my coffee. To us, all day breakfast is a concept. To them, it's a single menu item consisting of a plate of beans topped with a fried egg and surrounded with a greasy sausage and a shriveled piece of what looks like ham, but what I believe they refer to as bacon.

THEY SAY: rashers of bacon
WE SAY: slices of bacon

THEY SAY: chips
WE SAY: french fries

Ah, British cuisine. Beans, or chips, or both, with every meal. It's all been downhill since Saturday night at Jane's, when her husband prepared a fabulous four course meal and seemed thrilled to have appreciative guests.

THEY SAY: partner
WE SAY: girlfriend/boyfriend, or wife/husband

I'll tell you all about that next time.
* * *Go to Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K. Part II

Hotel California

I was reading my karaoke buddy Operaman's blog over the weekend and I laughed when I read this story. Not only because it's a damned funny story, but because it reminded me of a similar embarassing tale of my own, and, as I always say, if you can't laugh at yourself you can't expect other people to laugh at you.

For those of you, Gentle Readers, who also read Tim Bray, and to whom I've hinted that one day I'd tell you a Tim story, well, sit back, make yourselves comfy, here it is.

Be forewarned, however, that it is a story embarassing only to me, not at all to Tim. And while he knows part of the story, because he was there, he never knew, until now, the embarassing part, but since he's no longer my boss I don't need to worry about it being a career-limiting move.

It was September 1995, and I was the marketing manager for that long-defunct Internet search engine called the Open Text Index. Tim was my boss, but I had only met him once or twice, and only briefly, because he lived then, as he still does, in Vancouver, and Open Text was then, as it still is, in Waterloo. We had just signed a Big Deal with Yahoo! and were hosting a joint press conference at an Internet café in Greenwich Village — in New York City.

Man, those were the days.

When the press conference was over, we all came outside and stood on the café's patio in the sun. It was a heartbreakingly gorgeous day. There were six of us from Open Text, including the president of the company, who was busy schmoozing with his Yahooligan counterpart; Linda and Steve, on technical duty — this was a live "cybercast" — and David Weinberger, at that time our hired-gun P.R. guy. It was early for dinnertime, but just right for beer drinking time, and so we discussed where to go.

I remember looking down the street and seeing, in the distance, the twin towers of the World Trade Center. We were staying at the Marriott in the plaza there, the Marriott that is no longer there.

"Why don't we walk back?" I suggested. "I'm sure there are lots of places along the way, and we're in no hurry, are we?"

We were all staying at the hotel that night, flying home the next day.

I was surprised at the grumbling replies of "too far" and "too tired" and "have work to do."

Only Tim said, "Let's go."

So we did.

I just love walking in Manhattan when the weather is fine, and I don't mind it even when it's not. I've been to New York many, many times and I've covered on foot the entire distance from the south ferry to Columbia University. I would have been happy to walk south to the World Trade Centre that day alone, but I was even happier to have some company.

Just between you and me, Gentle Reader, I was also a little bit nervous. This was my boss, remember. I didn't know him very well, but I knew him well enough to know that he was about eight million times smarter than me. And I was smart enough to know that he was still forming an opinion of me. The next few hours had the equal potential to be a friendship-bonding or career-ending experience.

We set off along a street whose name I can't recall, in a southerly direction. I've been to New York three or four times since September 11, 2001 and have missed the twin towers, and their guidepost-like ability to give you your bearings and act as a beacon. In Toronto we have the CN Tower, which serves the same propitious purpose.

It wasn't long before we chose our first oasis. Tim walked in first, headed straight to the bar, and took a seat.

"Are you a bar-sitting kind of guy?" I asked. I, too, prefer sitting at the bar rather than at a table or a booth.

"When I don't know the area, I always sit at the bar. Bartenders are a wealth of information," Tim replied.

"Bartender, what's on draft?" Tim directed his question to the man currently in charge. He's not one for small talk, I thought, and marked that as a point in his favour. I'm no good at small talk myself, neither am I above despising those who are.

The bartender recited his list.

"Is there a local beer?" asked Tim. Then, to me: "Always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting."

I have never forgotten that piece of advice, and have imparted it frequently to friends, even to strangers. We had one beer, maybe two, then proceeded on our peregrination.

I don't remember where we ate dinner, or what we ate, and I remember little of the specifics of our conversation. I do remember that I was never bored, not even for a moment, and that I hoped the twin towers would be farther away than we had originally bargained for.

Night had fallen, but the evening was still fine and warm. We entered another establishment, and sat again at the bar. I don't remember which one of us said it first, and which expressed surpise that the other had, but the comment was this:

"Good single malt collection."

The bottles were, of course, clearly visible from the bar vantage. There was Glenlivet and Glenfiddich, Macallan and the other commonplace scotches, but what precipitated the comment was the Lagavulin, Dalwhinnie, and my favourite, Laphroaig.

Neat.

We sampled a couple of fine distilled malt beverages, and then the conversation became even more fascinating. Tim told me about working on the Oxford English Dictionary project, and about the interesting words he'd learned. (At such time as he sees fit to market his lustrous t-shirts, I will be the first customer.) He told me that he'd been married, and that he and his ex-wife were still friends, and how they had sent out divorce announcements the way people send out wedding announcements. He told me about growing up in Lebanon, and he likened the Internet to the telephone system he became accustomed to in that time and place — how it's far from perfect, it drops your connections now and then, it doesn't work all the time, but it's a great, great idea and it'll improve.

Have I mentioned I grew up in a hick town called Beamsville?

I was in awe.

And I was starting to feel drunk.

Now, I don't need you to tell me, Gentle Reader, that getting drunk is never a good idea, especially with co-workers and even more especially with your boss, but perhaps I don't need to tell you, either, that when you're drunk there's nothing you can say to yourself that will convince you of this truth.

I don't remember everything that happened after that. I very likely said some unintelligible, perhaps even downright stupid, things. On the bright side, I am a happy drunk — I love everybody, and at worst might need to be restrained from dancing on tables (or singing on balconies) — so it's doubtful I got into any serious trouble. Tim would have told me. I hope.

I remember a fountain. One of those big, round, constantly spraying ones, in a plaza. The kind that children will climb into on a hot day. I vaguely recall standing on the edge and daring Tim to dare me to jump in, a dare I would have taken, because I rarely can resist a dare, especially when I'm drunk.

But he didn't, and so I didn't. I think.

I'm sure we made it back to the Marriott, because of what was about to take place, but I have no recollection of the last few blocks. There may have been one last oasis; I'm not sure.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom very, very badly. You know how, when you wake up in a strange place you take a moment to get your bearings? Well, I didn't take that moment. I didn't turn on the light. I may have thought I was at home, and so I tried to find the bathroom door by rote.

When I opened my eyes I was in the hallway, and the door to my room had closed behind me.

You can check out any time you like, but don't forget to go to the bathroom first.

I was very drunk. The scotch had had a few hours to seep into my brain, but good. I had no idea what time it was. There was no one in the hallway; no sound from anywhere.

I couldn't remember which door was mine. Not that knowing would have helped me enter it.

I wandered in the hallway with no plan. Then I knocked on a door. I have no idea what I hoped for, maybe that I'd find Linda — she might have been staying on the same floor. Someone yelled at me from inside a room to go away. It wasn't Linda. Tim may have been on the same floor somewhere, too, and to this day I thank god, even though I don't believe in him, that I didn't knock on Tim's door in my stuporous condition.

Before long I came to the elevator. I shook the cobwebs out of my rattled brain and reminded myself how one functions. I was crossing my legs and walking funny by this time.

I remember being just aware enough of my predicament to realize that I was about to enter a world of embarassment in the lobby of the Marriott, but I had to pee so bad I no longer cared. It was a very, very big lobby, but thankfully it was almost empty. I went to the desk.

The clerk took pity on my and led me to the bathroom behind the desk. I imagine there was one out in the lobby somewhere, but I wouldn't have been able to find it with simple directions. The clever man must have sensed this, and weighed allowing me into forbidden territory versus having to call someone to clean up the mess I would surely make if left unattended.

I have never been so relieved, metaphorically and literally, in my life.

Then the desk clerk, god bless him, made me another key, and called a bellman who escorted me back to my room. He actually opened the door for me, turned on the light, held the door to let me in, then gave me the key.

I hope I thanked him.

Throughout this adventure, Gentle Reader, I was wearing my favourite dusty pink silk Victoria's Secret nightshirt with absolutely nothing on underneath. It was then about 15 years old, had been washed thousands of times, and was, and still is, very, very flimsy.

Come to think of it, that may have been why the desk clerk and the bellman were so solicitous.

Then again, I'm sure they've seen stranger things. As I told Operaman, if you work at that Days Inn for a few months you'll be able to write a book.

* * *
Gentle Reader, there may be a dearth of stories for the next week or two, until I return from England. Until then, do visit some of my bloggerly friends — you'll find them over to your right.