Virtual travel: the final frontier?

Virtual travel reminds me of Soilent Green...the scene where Edward G. Robinson is watching footage of wildlife as he is taking his last breath's. It's not long after that Charlton's character finds out "Soilent Green is people"!!! If we adopt sitting in front of our computers or hi-def tv's as a proxy for real travel...how long before we become fodder for food?

What  a  great  day!!!   My  favorite  British  newspaper,  the  Manchester  Guardian,  combines  with  one  of  my  favorite  interests,  railroading.    Now  if  we  could  only  skip  the  "virtual"  component,  and  discuss  this  subject  on  a  nostalga  train  ride,  consisting  of  former  Chicago  &  North  Western  rolling  stock....my  parents  and   grandfather  all  worked  there.  OK,  I'm  settling  in,  and  going  to  attempt  to  relate  to  "virtual"  travel.....but  some  things  need  other  than  vicarious  enjoyment.....    
On  a  semi-related  note,  the  largest  wooden  framed  building  in  the  world  is  under  construction  in  Sugarcreek,  Ohio.   The  man  who  owned  the  Ohio  Central  Railroad  has  been  bought  out  by  another  operator  of  short  lines  around  the  world.  Our  man  has  taken  some  of  his  gazillion  dollar  payday,  and  retained  his  inventory  of  a  dozen  operational  live  steam  engines.  The  structure  under  construction  is  the  new  turntable  and  roundhouse.  Excursion  trains  will  eventually  be  reinstated,  only  now  they  will  be  on  other   people's  right  of  way.   I  will  miss  the  antique  passenger  cars,  towed  by  the  former  Canadian  National  4-6-0  engine,  chugging  through  Amish  countryside  in  Autumn,  with  the  leaves  red  &  orange  but  still  on  the  sugar  maple  trees.....   

I've gotten to the point that I take virtual travel for granted, zooming up and down the Colorado Trail using Google Earth (and checking out road crossings with Street Views). I look at the Panoramio photos which, despite being almost universally displaced, show lots of the neat stuff. I'll explore places I've never been and will never visit as I read one or another of G.A. Henty's Victorian era historical novels. Islands off the Netherlands, the Crimean Peninsula. And so on...

And then there's my Second Life in which I travel about a virtual world built by its inhabitants... it still gives me a rush to see the waterfall I made or to visit the house I've furnished.

When I look around me (in so-called 'real life') I'm forever wondering what it would look like if I could see in infrared (like butterflies), or in utltraviolet. What does a mouse look like to a hawk? And in the world of the audio, I wonder how much I'm missing because I can't hear like a bat... What folks call 'reality' is such a tiny slice of what's real...

Finally, as I read about the brain (and play with visual illusions) I'm in awe that the primitive signals sent from the retina to the occipital lobe result in the incredible images that flash across my consciousness. And when I fool around with visual 'tricks' I'm amused by how easy it is to confuse the human sense of vision. It boggles my mind that 'eye witnesses' are allowed to determine the fates of men and women in criminal proceedings. They're not much better than dowsing for determining what really happened. (And that's before the brain's memory function(s) kick in to further distort what people think they saw.

I tell folks I live in many worlds, but all of them are real (or if you prefer, all of them are virtual). It's all in 'the flow' of experience through which I travel. And vacations are as much what happens inside our heads as what's happening outside them, too...

DocNolan:   I  once  seriously  bidded  on  an  antique  metal  cupola  window  caboose,  thinking  it  would  be  the  ultimate  onshore  "fishing  shack"  down  near  my  dock.   Unfortunately  the  property  owners  association  trustees,  with  me  abstaining  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  impropriety,  voted  that  this  proposal  violated  our  zoning,  rules,  and  restrictive  covenants.   But  I  still  have  it  down  there,  virtually  speaking,  I  "see"  it  in  my  mind.....
 
Doc,  eyewitness  testimony  has  been  seriously  discredited  in  criminal  cases.  It  is  highly  unreliable.  Dr.  Fulero,  a   lawyer  and  a  PhD,  is  my  hired  expert.  The  innocence  Project  and  the  Ohio  Association  of  Criminal  Defense  Lawyers  supports  the  same  premise.......

For those of us able to travel, I don't feel that the virtual experience will ever take the place of the real thing. There is a lot to be said for the feelings, tastes, and smells of a place. Whether it's the wind in your hair and the sun upon your face at the station, the sensation of the train speeding down the track, the feel of the seats, the closeness of the other passengers (or your companion), or the aroma of new and different foods emanating from the dining car, no virtual trip can replace that kind of total sensory exposure.
That being said...if you cannot travel, for whatever reason, then the virtual trip is well worth taking! You can live a life outside of your 4 walls and see things you never thought you'd be able to see, while satisfying many a curiosity.

"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." ~ St. Augustine

I will buy my own ticket and take my own ride. What was it Mae West said, something like "I'm no model lady. A model's the imitation of the real thing." 

Virtual travel can never replace the real thing.  It may jog your memory or peak your curiosities but nothing replaces the sensation of tasting the air and feeling the rain in a different city.

Virtual travel is like virtual love...... very unsatisfying........
 
Virtual anything borders a tad on the creepy. That being said, virtual friends are the cat's pajamas!

Good Morning Bebe:  Glad we made the cut of good things.  Virtual friends are low maintenace.  All other realms  of virtual reality remind me of Dante's Inferno.   

Hey JULIA-- Miss you dear!!! I always feel happy when I see your name on a post. If I don't see you in the morning, I get a little troubled. Have a beautiful day in New York. While I am still roaming around in a robe, drinking tea & getting my Saturday plans together- "Manhattan" is on- one of my favorite movies.

Thanks Bebe!  

Back home again from Huntsville. While on Tuesday morning, I almost wished that my travel down south from Ohio was virtual (I ended up in a snowbank on the side of the ramp from I-75 SB to I-275 WB--got myself out of it okay, but lost 3 hours in the mess of getting a different rental car), I wouldn't have traded the drive from Northern KY south through Tennessee and into Alabama for a virtual one. Nor the trip back, where I took a different route coming home so I could stop in and visit Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill near Harrodsburg, KY. I'd been there back in September 2008 and have some wonderful memories of it, and looking at photos of that trip was fun, but they paled beside getting to walk through the place once more. Of course the last time I was there it was early autumn and the leaves were turning. This time they were in that post-snowfall period where there's still some snow on the ground but there's also open patches of grass, and the gravel roads are starting to get muddy. Someone or other had built snowmen in various parts of the Village, and they were still to be seen, but the signs of incipient spring are there as well--sap buckets on the sugar maples, all ready to catch the rising sweetness! My boots need cleaning now, but it was a wonderful three hours of tromping around the place, chatting with the costumed guides and just enjoying the peacefulness of it. I think there might have been about twenty visitors there the whole time I was wandering about. I practically had the place to myself most of the time! Now I need to plan to get back there in the spring when the flowers are blooming and the fields have been plowed and planted, and in midsummer when the first vegetables are being harvested....

 
Thesepia train transcends virtuality and reality as well come to that and the reason some of us need a hand-up is that the weariness and woes, too muches, too littles , the pains and worries cling to the platform where without a host, they shrivel, perish and blow away on the evening breeze.

The word "virtual" should be replaced with the word "almost" and then even then, perhaps "not quite".  It's the sights not "sites", the smells, the people, foods, weather, bars even the mishaps that make travel the experience that it is.
 
Travel these days is so difficult, but to think that a virtual voyage is the same as the sea breeze and saltwater in your face is so wrong. 
 
Part of the experience of eating, say a canteloupe, is to savor the smell.

Andy:   The  olfactory  system  with  which  we  are  equipped  some  say  is  3/4  of  our  sensation of  taste.   Some  movies  now  have  machines  that  give  off  appropriate  smells  cued  to  the  visuals,  and  of  course  anyone  with  kids  or  grandkids  has  seen  "Avatar"  in  3-D.

I  just  noticed  the  picture  John  Peterman  used  with  his  daily  story  article.....   The  railroad  tracks  have  concrete  ties,    so  I'm  guessing  Great  Britain.   No  way  to  check  by  gauge  of  railroad,   without  something  of  known  size  with  which  to  compare.

Thanks for the trip, JP. I clicked on the Volga River and Russian Radio. I would advise people to try it.

Hey, Olivia, if you pop in here today, I just wanted to let you know that while I was catching up on the week's PE articles and associated comments that I missed while I was away, I found your "Chapter 10". :) Wow! that was great! Can you point me to the first 9 chapters of your story? I'm enough of a newbie here that I missed them. But despite having come in at the end of the tale, I was totally absorbed by your prose, feeling that I was in the crowd leaving the restaurant (I also collected up some of the chocolates! LOL!), watching you on the hood of the Bentley, and at the table next to yours, overhearing your conversation. Well done, my dear! Well done!

We don't need virtual experiences to provide us an actaul smell experience.  Remember "Polyester" from the 1980's?  Some of the scratch sniff was virutally disgusting!

My mind can take me on a virtual trip to my balcony at the Marriott in St Thomas, I can remember what it felt like, smelled like and looked like but I'd still rather be there in real live person.

From an early age we're all armchair travelers whether to NeverNever Land, all over the world with Babar, to the farm, or back and forth to different time periods.   Those with good imaginations have always been "virtual travelers."  I suspect that the kind of virtual travel we're speaking of today is like that--it can't replace the real adventure.  As the old saying goes....getting there is half the fun!   My husband and I have seen several HD travel programs and instead of saying, "OK we've been there."  We start dreaming about "someday" actually being there.  (Probably won't happen, but dreams are healthy) Years ago, I read Paul Theroux's "Riding the Iron Rooster" about the very same Trans-Siberian route.  And that was truly, truly virtual travel.....I smelled the smells, I heard the sounds, I felt the tedium just like I felt the temperatures.  But it in no way made me think that's not for me.  Contrarily, it whet my appetite for real experiences like that and more; it made me want to ride that train!!  I never have.  Yet. Travel shouldn't be about your comfort zone.  You don't learn all that much being comfortable.

If virtual travel is the final frontier--- load me onto the Starship, put a virtual meal into my pocket, and someone make love to me for one virtual last time--- then set me on fire & away I go.....  Really creepy....................
 
Have a great day kids. I'm headed to town for a late Chinese lunch ( yayyyyy- we finally got a great Chinese place.) Don't go travelling down some virtual, dark alley...... bwaaaaahahaha.......

Here, here, Carol!

 Riding the Orient Express is an experience that is almost indescribable, I am sure the Trans Siberian is much the same, however how many of the population could afford this once in a lifetime "trip"? I am guessing far less than one percent of the population. So is there a place for virtual travel? Absolutely, anyone who is fortunate to have traveled just has to sit back and close their eyes to remember the adventures they have experienced; virtual travel is a way to bring a close resemblance of these experiences to everyone.

Bert: Your question regarding the location of the photograph, I very much doubt it is England the Pandrol clips are correct although since 2000 they have used the improved Pandrol Fastclip, however the shape of the sleeper (tie) is not normal for the UK, my guess would be one of the Scandinavian countries possibly Denmark.    

Triston:   OMG,   somebody's   fluent  in  the  railroad  language!    Thanks  for  the  post,  at  least  I'm  right  to  the  limited  extent  that  it's  not  in  America.   Something  I  noticed,  in  most  of  Europe,  a  trainspotter  risks  immediate  arrest  &  questioning....terrorism  fears.

Triston:   On  an  Italian  train,  going  from  London  to  Paris,  we  stopped  in  Switzerland  in  the  middle  of  the  night.   The  Swiss  police  were  curious  about  my   passport,  nothing  per  se  being  wrong,  they  were  just  curious  that  I  had  stamps  from  places  that  they  had  never  seen  configured  in  that  sequence.   The  Italians  got  off,  looking  for  snacks.  I  swear  the  entire  train  sat  for   several  hours.   Seems  the  Italian  crew  got  sidetracked,  perhaps  meeting  a  few  women  for  a  drink  or  two.    The  French,  hearing  that   it  was  an  ITALIAN  train,   stopped  inquiring  about  a  3  hour  delayed  arrival.

Bert: My fluency in railroad language is due to being involved with the design team for the Pandrol Fastclip, the prime reason for Europe not encouraging train spotting is because of the extremely high safety standards within European rail systems, far higher than in the U.S., most train spotters in England for example are of the "nerdish" ilk with a total flagrant disregard of any form of safety to either themselves or others when they want to get that special photograph.
 
I can remember a time when traveling between the Netherlands and Germany via train when I was almost removed from the train by the German authorities because I had a small bag of coffee with me! In the end they decided to confiscate my coffee.

 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Three_rail_tracks_350.jpg

Triston:   So  what   happened  to  Europe's  extremeely  high  standards  earlier  this  week?   One  British  train  was  equipped  with  a  dead  man's  switch  {autostop  if  train  runs  a  red  signal},  the  other  was  not.   #2  ran  into  #1.   British  Rail  now  blames  lack  of  uniform  standards  in  European  Union,  they  say  they  didn't  want  to  essentially  buy  what  might  later  be  declared  to  be  the  nonconforming  system.   Mega  crash,  fatalities.

 Bert: Do most of the countries in Europe have extremely high safety standards the answer is yes, BUT are the standards uniform throughout the different countries in Europe the answer is a very BIG NO. One only has to look at America here we have Federal law plus State law, State laws can vary considerably, also correct me if I am wrong but there are  cases when State law can override Federal law, in many ways it is the same in Europe, there is the European law plus each countries laws with very little uniformity.  One good example is England insisting on driving on the opposite side of the road to the majority of other countries in the world; one can give many reasons for England to change, do they? No. However back to British Rail there was a host or "excuses" why the particular event happened, as you are probably aware British Rail is now split up into smaller "franchises"   each run as a separate business with shareholders to answer to, so again there is a lack of uniformity.  I could stand on a soapbox at Speakers Corner, Hyde Park, London and talk for hours on this subject, but until a standardized system is initiated throughout Europe events like this will always happen.

Thoughtful  answer,  Triston.   Were  we  in our  virtual  railway  club  car,   I  would  buy  us  a  bottle,   secure  2  glasses,  and  we  would  proceed  to  get  philosophical.....lol

Rhyselle-Thank you. At the risk of overdosing, overstaying, or whatever, here's the whole shebang. I don't know any other way to point you to the entire thing.
I apologize for taking up so much space...

NEAR MISS                                                                                                                                         

Chapter 1                                                                                                                                             

Sometimes getting lost is not a bad thing. I wonder what the Blues, French and Ciel, would say if they knew I'd slipped their toy car out for a drive this evening? The soiree was ever so boring, don't you know, and it was only a few quick steps from the loggia to the mews when Jock tipped me the high sign. I patted Nibs the Elder gently on his velvet squire's jacket lapel, favoured him with a brilliant smile, which caused his colour to improve greatly as he swirled his Barolo, and cantered off, jubilant to be in motion. Another round with Madame Tussaud and her frighteningly graphic Lake Como society gossip, and I would be unable to conceal my glazed numbness with any sort of grace.

Well, of course you know that Jock wouldn't tell. He is economical of expression, as befits all good chauffeurs, and would certainly never voluntarily expose my naughtiness.

See this dear little angled pocket on my hacking jacket? That's where I keep Jock. And he likes it there too, let me tell you. I make sure of that. He's in good company.

I strode quickly to the Mercedes' side, my trumpet skirt swirling about my riding boots. Jock, solicitous as ever, eased me into my satin evening coat and handed me the Italian lambskin gloves.

"For Milady's grip" he chuckled, basso profundo.

I shivered and bussed his rough cheek, then slid behind the wheel of the creamy 300SL Roadster. The door was raised, and I was off into the gloaming, a silk aviator's scarf snapping in the crisp air. Freedom!

Tooling about the Como puntellos is quite pleasant of an evening, and I allowed myself to drive and dream until I realized that I had no idea where in the outback, as it were, I was. I recalled passing what must be a sporting lodge a few miles back, and so I came about and retraced the narrow road to the rustic cabin among the pines. It was well-lit and warm looking. Without a second thought I knocked the door and asked the well-dressed and pleasantly avuncular gentleman who opened it how I might find my way back to Casa Blu before the evening wore itself out.

He smiled affably, took the cigar from his mouth, and gestured for me to enter, with a manicured hand holding a crystal old-fashioned of amber fluid that clinked agreeably as he sloshed it.

"Per favore".

I could see no reason to refuse. The atmosphere was convivial, the great fireplace was crackling, and I smiled at one and all as I warmed my reverse. Clearly, this was a men's fishing lodge, and I was the catch of the day. I giggled to myself. They would doubtless benefit from a little femininity hereabouts, but I couldn't stay long. As I discussed local geography with Zio Pippo, as he insisted that I call him, I heard an unseen American amiably protesting his nome della casetta.

Did he say cavallo? I perked up. This could be interesting...

Chapter 2

Hello, Severine? How are you dear thing? Yes, just leaving the Marche des Puces, such a queer thing. This MAN, you know how that goes...

Well, anyroad, I was wearing the silk and cashmere turtleneck and the Emma Peel leather jacket you sent me from that catalog. Yes, just a snug pair of Sevens and my big boots, all very put together of course. You taught me well, didn't you Auntie? So, my sixth sense keeps tickling, and sure enough, I caught him STARING, and not just once either. Not altogether unpleasant. Oh no, quite the interesting gentleman. Seemed familiar somehow, couldn't place him. Yes, American, doubtless. Clocks, old pub signs, jeroboams, the oddest things-he would make off with the very bit of antique lace I had my eye on! Had this wee woman with him, all very serious tete-a-tetes and so forth.

Well, just when it seemed as though he was about to speak to me, Paul called, and I HAD to take that, of course. Yes, he DID. No no, not telling now. You'll have to wait. Hold on, they're walking this way...

Omigod, I've heard that voice before. It was not long ago, in Italy. YES! Lake Como, remember? The lodge. This is tres bizarre, love. No, I didn't speak to him then, either. I'm sure I don't know, dear-it's HIS loss isn't it? I had to leave-Jock buzzed me, and you know how HE gets. Yes, had to tuck the marvelous beast back in his place, more's the pity. Non, Tante, the car! Don't be awkward. I can juggle quite well, as you know. Hmmm, let's see how HE likes being stared at. Wonder if that's his wife? Any more like him at home? Hmm, what? Oh, sorry-did I say that out loud?

Lovely britches, those. Oh, that reminds me. I found a marvelous bolt of what certainly appears to be Donegal tweed. Aye, the real thing, or like enough. Your lady could run up all the trousers Stephan could ever want. Shall I go for it? What? Found them in the catalog? Oh well, right then.

Don't look for me at dinner-I've had a better offer. Kisses...Ta!

Chapter 3                                                                                                                                             

Sarita waggled the phone at me with a wry look as I walked in, tossing scarf, silk raincoat, and my big Gladstone on the Le Corbusier. The half-bottle of Veuve called plaintively from the kitchen fridge.

"What NOW?" I asked, stamping a spectatored foot petulantly.

"It's Pascal. He needs to talk about your design. The customer wants more silk, more sweep-he says."

"Oh, he does, does he? I'll give him sweep. Hand me that phone."

I had just returned from an intense meeting with the Dassault representatives, my head was hurting from decoding rapid Apache French, and I was in no mood for difficult vendeurs. I slipped off my earring, took a deep breath, and addressed poor Pascal in dulcet tones.

"What can I do for you, Sugar?"

Ah! Mamzelle! This man, he loves your skirt, he loves all, but wants it to be bigger." (Don't all men? I thought to myself, but held my whisht.)

"All right, dear-I'll make it bigger for you-will that do? Anything else?"

"He wants to meet you. He say he likes to talk with you."

"Whatever in the world do you mean, dear man?"

"He say to me he knows you. Seeing you before. Europe. Remember?"

"Paz, I haven't a clue what you are babbling about. Could you be more specific please?" Somewhere in the back of my mind a memory, like a small furry thing, began to stir.

"Your picture in the magazine, ma chere. He say he has seen you before. He calls you Near Miss-what does it mean?"

"You're asking me? How would I know, Pascal Robert? Please come to the point." I glanced at the Gothic mantel clock and frowned a bit.

"I have to be at the paddock in an hour, as you well know, or Quarter Moon will be difficult. She needs to stretch her legs, and she'll take the huff if I'm late." I thought a moment. "Here, collect this fellow and bring him round if he wants to meet me. Does he ride?"

Silence. Rustling noises. The sound of my foot tapping.

"He is from Kentucky, Mamzelle..."

"Ah. Shouldn't be a problem, then. Bring him along, and don't dawdle. I know you and your Laphroaig fetish. Abientot."

"MAMZELLE, une autre..."

"What what what?"

Sound of a throat clearing..."He want to see your lingerie."

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is what he says to me. For a story he writes."

"You tell him that is very much out of the way, Pascal Robert Dufour. No one sees my knickers but You-Know-Who!"

 I'm afraid I rather scorched the poor boy's lug with scorn. He was much abashed, for I had used three of his names, and he knew I was approaching bad form. The very idea! He'd some neck on him, this American! I began to sputter, then I had a flash.

"Paz? Here, you remember Miss T? She called last week? Give him her number, and that website, if he wants to look at undies. Must dash, or QM will be at me like Diomedes' mares. Bring the Kentuckian round if he calms himself. TA."

Sarita was in the galley kitchen, pouring a flute of bubbly and eyeing me with amusement. I glared at her in mock annoyance, then laughed and said "WHAT?"

She handed me a glass, raised hers to toast, and intoned "Here's to your new line of Victorian lingerie, Miss Hothead!"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh merde!" Forgot about that, didn't I? Well, but what would a seller of coats and such want with a line of beribboned, neo-Victorian, sexy smallclothes? Hmmm, this could be interesting...

Chapter 4                                                                                                                                             

"Shelby, where in the Nine Counties is my saddle?" I was beginning to get a teeny bit exercised. Someone had clearly been AT my tack. Insupportable cheek.

"Yessum!" This was not the answer I wanted...

"Shelby do I need to talk with your mama?" I called across the partition. I could hear him scuffing around with something back there.

"NOMAM, it's here!" He yelled, sounding satisfactorily anxious. More scuffing.

I sighed a large and theatrical exhalation, then smiled to myself and set off to see what was up. Moon stamped, snorted, and flashed me a basilisk glare. I wasn't sure either of us was in the mood for a trot just now. She backed up and pretended to be extremely interested in the straw at her feet.

"You don't fool me a bit, lady." I snapped at her. Lots of snuffling and snorting in reply. Pointedly ignoring me.

I rounded the wall, and Shelby's denim backside met my gaze. Whatever was he doing?

"Shelby, whatever are you doing, you mad thing?"

"I'm sorry, Mam, I was cleaning your saddle. Them guys took it outside, and birds pooped on it."

I was starting to feel a little light-headed.

"Could we start from the beginning, young man? Are you telling me that renegade avians besmirched my Devoucoux?" Wait, the dressage was still on its stand. There was a large dirty rag over the saddle he meant. I relaxed.

"No, Mam-it was birds. They pooped on your fancy saddle. The one that prince guy gave you that you don't never use. I was trying to clean it up before you come in."

 "He's not a prince, he's a sheik. SO, now tell me why it was put in harm's way?"

"Those men that came in, the one guy, in the hat-he wanted a sketch of the tooling, and the silver conchos. Thought they was real purty. I heard him say he was gonna make a belt like it. He wanted the outside light on it. That's what he said."  

"He'll play merry hell making anything out of my saddle."

"No, Mam-he had the other guy with him for doin' pitchers. He drew it up, and they left when the boss guy got a phone call. Said to tell you sorry he missed you again."

The roll of ocean swells was making me a bit nauseous. I was all at sea, without even a teaspoon to bail with. 

Missed me, again? What is happening? I strolled, bemused, back into the stalls, and absentmindedly stroked Quarter Moon's nose. She whickered and sniffed my hand for carrots or apples. When none were forthcoming, she bumped my hand away and again stuck her snout into the straw. Snorts and pawing. I looked down, and said "OH!" in surprise. There was a small box in the straw, almost invisible. Moon was tentatively pushing it about. I stooped and retrieved it. Ooh, there was a small note attached. I giggled to myself-what would it say? "Eat me? Drink me?"

It said "Thanks-JP". Not much help. I'm still confused. I opened the box, and inside was a flower. Not a flower flower, but a silk flower. Red, pin-able, lovely. The box smells faintly of bay rum. I like it.

Chapter 5

Chicago. A million stories in the Chill...cold, blowy, and wet today. Lakeshore Drive is busy, and so am I. But first, I have to get outside and move a little. I dressed warmly and put on my running shoes, in case I got ambitious. Down the elevator to the lobby, popped out the front door while the nice man held it for me, straight into the teeth of a howler off the lake that actually pushed me backwards for a second. I gritted my teeth and resisted, rounded the corner onto LSD and down the footpath by the poor bent trees. As Granda Conor would've noted, with a weather eye across the Irish Sea, the white horses were racing in. The wind whipped the waves, and all of the crazy joggers too. I growled and put my head down into my wooly scarf, trying to distract myself. Lots of people out.

I chugged down by the park, towards Northwestern. I wanted to have a look at Navy Pier, since I had been away awhile. There was a particular spot that had some good memories.

I went left on East Grand, passed the Tower going well, and nosed on down to the Pier. I decided to sprint the last bit, and so put my arse right into it, and pulled up huffing just past the entry. Two women were there as well, one running in place, the other obviously done. They appeared to be having a difference of opinion. They might have been sisters, and the dark-haired one looked very familiar, her ponytail bobbing as she marked time in exasperation. I couldn't hear their conversation well enough (yes, I eavesdrop-don't you?), but Miss Runner was clearly attempting to bring Miss Finished round to her plans. Lots of arm waving, something about a dress, a picture, and JP. Wait a tick-did she say JP? No, couldn't be. Couldn't be the SAME JP anyway...

I had been nosing about amongst the literature on coincidences, improbability drives, and juxtapositions. I re-read some Conan Doyle. Guess what? Anything is possible. ANYTHING. I looked up-no OVNIs. Lines kept running through my head:

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

This last while, a lot of improbable things had been happening. The quote continues:

It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you.

Well, I didn't recognize any danger, unless weirdness in your life is dangerous, but I wasn't concerned. I did feel rather stupefied, or something very like, at times. A most unusual, rare, and distressing sensation. All my clever thoughts on intimate design flew out of my head like hens from a fox. I'm sure I was the very spit and image of a simpleton, standing and staring about me distractedly. Fortunately, no one took any notice, so there was that.

Oh, dear-look at the time! I had a meeting in under an hour, at the Drake. I sped off, leaving the lassies to their debate.

An hour later, Sarita and I were seated in a conference room with lots of guys and two young women, all in black, all texting and talking on cell phones, wearing sunglasses indoors. No accounting for taste, I suppose. I looked at Sarita. She rolled her eyes and snapped open the sample case. We began spreading lingerie on the table, and suddenly the weather changed in the room.

"Gotta go"

"Talk to you later"

Clickety click pop.

Wonderful how black lace, white silk, and scarlet ribbons concentrate the male mind, isn't it? Instant conferences, lots of head scratching and chin-rubbing.

From the back of the room a woman stepped forward with her cell phone held up. I hadn't noticed her before. She wasn't wearing any black. She took several pictures, and then she got busy on her phone while I answered questions for a few minutes.

"Excuse me. Excuse me, please." The woman was speaking, her firm contralto slicing through the bee-buzz of the counterculture.

Sarita held up a hand for silence. "Yes, can I help you?"

"My client wishes me to inform you that he would like the lot, please. Could I have your card? We'll be contacting you shortly."

She took my card from Sarita and left the room, after thanking us. That one had good manners, at least.

The rest looked at one another. "First the dress ladies at the museum, now this. That dude gets around," one of the guys said, ruefully.

"There's cake in The Gold Coast Room, at the Character Actors' Convention-let's go!" somebody exclaimed, and we were alone.

Sarita and I looked at each other, simultaneously intoning "Cake at the Drake!", followed by a fit of giggles.

"I'd say this calls for a brunch, with lashings of mimosas, Sarita."

"Yes indeed. Oh, did you want this? The lady left it for you." She handed me a white book, like a catalog, with pictures on the cover, royal octavo sized. I looked at it briefly and dropped it into my big bag, the one I call The Black Hole.

Owner's Manual? I arched an eyebrow.

Fascinating...

Chapter 6

Glancing out the window and across the meadow, I felt the wry face go on. Sleet. Miss Q would be in her glory, and I a Dreamsicle, as Man Dear liked to say. Cheeks reddening already, I set out my gear: the muck boots, silk tights, wool jodhpurs. Ooh, and the tall woolly socks-yes! Hmmm, silk and cashmere turtleneck? Check. The necessaries. The capeskin gloves. Pappy's big felt hat. Cashmere scarf-the long one. The hacking jacket. Wait-with sleet, better go with the Aussie...what the hell, both. It's cold. And one never knows where one might end up, what? I pointed the big Baigish field glasses out the bow window-yes, definitely a curl of smoke upon the horizon. He was to home. A good sign...of course QM had been asking for a visit with his stallion, and who am I to deny her? Put those plain things back...the lace necessaries would, um, have to do.

The tea was surely stept. Bit of milk, and Bob's your uncle. Bother-there's the last of the milk. Now I'd certainly a good cause to travel.

And where has Sarita taken herself off to? I hate doing French braids by myself. I stamped a foot in mock petulance, then grinned at myself in the mirror. She's away the day, isn't she? Crafty wee thing...

The phone went, and I was off like a shot. Stood and waited until the third ring began, then picked up, languid like.

"Hello? Oh, darling, there you are. How was Kinsale, how's your mum? Did you think to bring me scones? A dozen mixed? You ARE a dear. I was just going riding, after a cuppa. Out of milk, so it's an errand, you see. What? I never heard of a Bentley wanting exercise, you daft man. I'll just put the kettle on. Drive carefully, and don't forget the milk."

Glancing out the window, I noticed a, no two, figures across the way, on horseback. I trained the glasses on them, and there he was. The hat, the coat, it had to be. Either Pascal, or Sarita, or somebody, was giving out the pay on my wee ways. Well, no matter. The sleet was letting off, so I was happy for them. But there'd be no horsing about today-at least, not out there. So, missed me again. I looked at my lacies-yes they'd do very nicely.

Chapter 7

Mercy, I was tired. There are only so many ways one can explain what can, and cannot, be done with various fabrics before the Queen wants to take over. "Off with their heads!" I felt the shriek pushing its way to the fore, and Sarita kicked me under the table, just in time. A sweet smile and a dignified dénouement, yes. All had gone well.

I stepped onto the veranda, gazing out across the paddock to the Little Field. Quarter Moon was enjoying the break in the winter weather. Loki and Crescent and Surprise were having a good stretch as well, all just dots on the greening grass. I let my mind wander up the generations of those grand animals, Fafnir and Half Moon and on and on. The sun was warm today, and a breeze played with my dress, my hair...ribbons were definitely too much for that new silk gown. Simple and elegant and timeless is what I want it to say. Just a few dark colours, black, wine red, midnight blue. Well, maybe ivory. GRRRR!

Get your mind off of work! I scolded myself.

But I like it-it's not really work.

You'll be a dull girl.

It's already a bit dull, since the Blues went back to Italy and the Bentley doesn't crunch up the drive for another week or so. Not my fault. Work takes the mind off, so it does...

BOOM

What was that? Shotgun, from yonder way. Head swiveled in the direction of the sound, all the woolies vanished.

BOOM

I waited. Nothing. So, not a pump. Caught myself sniffing, and grinned. How quickly it comes back. Out shooting with the guys, the determined wee girl with the sore shoulder and the grit. I scanned the middle distance.

BOOM

Okay, he's reloaded; it's a bit light. A twenty or a four-ten.

BOOM

Skeet. I'd bet on it. This is new. Well, for me. Not that long here, the horses getting used to things, and myself as well. When Himself found this on the market, I was amazed. It's perfect, and the price was right. Interesting that he was looking so close by, isn't it? Maybe not...

BOOM

Well now, all ears. A good way off, I'd say. But then, there's the wind...

BOOM

The horses were looking too. Curious, moving back towards the paddock. I went in and put on my muckers, the leather coat, and gloves. I took Pappy's old brown felt hat, too. It's too big, but I love it.

Down by the gate, they nuzzled in turn and moseyed by. Move along, nothing to see here, yes it's a carrot. Very nonchalant, that's good. Loki was dancing, but that's just him, the rip. He's well named.

"Shelby!"

"Yessum?"

"Saddle Moon for me, please. I want to have a look round the neighbourhood."

"Yessum"

I wandered round the paddock, doing this and that, until Shelby led Moon out. She was clearly pleased, wanting to GO. I got up, reined her round, and off we went in the general direction of all the booming. Only now, nothing. I quartered the fields for a few miles around, looking for a shooting party or a skeet match or something. Just nice farms and ranch houses, some with verandas clearly ideal for shooting from. There was that big old rambling one there...OH! a big gust of wind took Pappy's hat right off my head, and I desperately wheeled Moon and gave chase. It was kiting high and fast, and I jumped a couple of fences trying to keep up. No luck. It disappeared behind a house, and when I circled, it was nowhere to be found. I searched for a long time, got cold and tired and angry and sad, and then I gave up. I'd had that old beat up hat for decades, and now it was gone. Life can be such a pain sometimes.

Back at the house, I went for a shower. Long, hot, soapy, I felt better after, but still ached where the hat used to be. I made some mint tea, and drank it in my dressing gown. I read the mail, I cried a little, and fussed at myself. It was just a hat, but it was Pappy's hat, dammit. There are pictures of me in just a diaper and that hat, toddling round the house. He loved it that I coveted his old funky hat. And I loved him, and the hat connected us. Some things shouldn't pass.

"Miss Anna?" Shelby called through my boudoir door.

"Shelby? What brings you up to the house? You never like to hang out up here." Shelby had his own little place out back, where he liked to be, near the horses. I opened the door and looked at him quizzically. He seemed a bit apologetic, but that was Shelby's way. He was holding some things.

"Well, mam, while you was, uh, busy, that man came by and left you some stuff."

"What man, Shelby? Who do you mean? Himself wouldn't be back from Bangkok this soon."

"No mam, your neighbor, what does the clothes and all. He brought your hat back. And stuff."

"WHAT? Pappy's hat? Get in here, let me see!"

Sure enough, Shelby handed me a paper sack with Pappy's hat in it, not too much the worse for wear. He had a box too, with a lovely straw hat, perfect for Spring. This one had a leather chinstrap, and I laughed a little. A note in the box said "Thought you could use this. It may be a bit more secure on windy days. Best, JP"

"When did he come by? Where is he? How did..." I stopped and looked at poor Shelby, who was wide-eyed.

"He come walkin', Miss Anna, from yonder way" Shelby pointed back toward my veranda. I ran out there and scanned the road. There was a dot, moving in the distance, so I found the field glasses and had a look. Aha. Man in a hat, long coat, stick, striding purposefully, his back to me. Grrr.

What the Dickens would it be next? Life certainly has been interesting lately.

"He sure was a handy man" ventured Shelby, before leaving in his quiet way. "Right on the spot, out there, got you all fixed up, mam."

Yes, indeed. A handy man, an interesting man, an elusive man...I looked into the hatbox, at the catalog lying there.

A Peterman?

Chapter 8

I was crying, again. So foolish, I know, but I can't help it. Little Crescent, Moon's foal, was going to the Curragh, to meet her new owner, and I KNEW I shouldn't have done it. I sighed, and washed my face. Usually I would love a Queen Mary crossing, but not this time. The boat held no pleasure for me. All this anguish over a horse. But you love her, I told myself. Yes, but you can't keep them ALL, now can you? Why not? Because you can't afford it, that's why, you silly goose. Too late to worry about that now. What's done is done. The contract is signed, the money's in the bank, and your equine daughter's arranged marriage is all settled. I was tortured with regret, and I'd fretted and analyzed and sorted through the decision over and over. It was just me, just selfishness. Crescent would be fine, she'd be well looked after. I just couldn't bear to let her go. But I did, and that's that. I crossed my arms and frowned at myself in the mirror. Images of mean trainers, rough and randy stallions, glue factories, all passed before my mind's eye. I felt my cheeks flushing, hot tears welling up again. Stop that!

No crosswords, and my best friend Kate was out of reach, so no rhyming games either. She'd already gone over, and she and Auntie Severine were adamant that I meet them at Harrod's after delivering Crescent. Shopping would take my mind off...right.

I needed a distraction. I cast about the cabin, and picked up the catalog I'd brought from the hatbox. Definitely my style. That's nice, and that, and that. Here, my good man-I'll have the lot! Ha-this bit about the dotty trousers-tres cute. I looked out my pencil and pad, and played with it. Lots of erasing, fussing, grrr-ing and nonoNO-ing, and I gave over, tired and finally sleepy. I put it aside for the breezy deck in the morning, perhaps. Yawned and stretched...we'll see, tomorrow is another day.

Days of gossip, taking sun,

Green figs and Pernod, one and one.

He stuttered once, and stammered twice

I cut him short with curt advice:

"Light my Cocktail quick, old dear,

And whisper secrets in my ear,

The wicked ones I love the best.

Be sure and tell me all the rest."

Later, as we dined al fresco,

He tarried till he saw the rest go

Strolling through the citrus trees.

He asked me, leering, could he please

T-take my picture, as I gently

Leaned against the Baron's Bentley?

I crossed my legs, silk trousers flowing

He caught his breath, his cigar glowing...

Sure, he tried to be a gentleman.

He commented upon my tan.

He regaled me with his adventures...

I noticed his ill-fitting dentures.

I fended him off, I wore him down,

And took a cab back into town,

For no one would I ever let

Make fun of my dear Somerset.

Snug aboard the London train, I began to relax a bit. Shelby had collected Crescent with the horse lorry, and would take her the last leg of her journey. I really couldn't bear to say goodbye again, and I had no way of meeting her new owner. It was some anonymous corporation-good references and no face. The people I'd dealt with were nice enough, but I wanted to meet the person that she would have to depend upon.  I sighed-one can't have everything, one supposes. 

I walked to the lounge and ordered a glass of claret, sitting by a window to watch the rain bucketing down on the English countryside. Daydreaming, sipping wine, I began to doze, just a bit...

Alertness came with the pocketa pocketa of a black helicopter arrowing across the downs toward the train. I had anticipated this, so I rose and made my way quickly back to the baggage car, throwing off my long silk raincoat and dragging the big leather Gladstone down. I was conscious of the secure feeling imparted by the snug black Kevlar and lycra skillsuit. The Quartermaster had issued me a miniature rocket launcher which I rapidly assembled from parts of my brolly and my hair dryer. In another minute I'd produced the deadly little missile from various cylinders and goos in my makeup kit. Locked and loaded, I climbed to the roof of the train. Through the HUD display of my polarized lenses, I ranged the incoming menace and shouldered my weapon. My old nemesis, Professor Sansmerci, would be getting a bit of a surprise shortly. I would see my duty done, and the Crescent Project would arrive safely, or my name isn't...

A bright flash from the copter said they'd made me. I flattened against the roof of the train as the heat beam passed over. We went though a wooded area, and when the sightlines cleared, they had circled. I swiveled and readjusted the coordinates. The professor was not making this easy for me, and I cursed him when I broke a nail. He was definitely for it now. I drew down, sighted, and squeezed the trigger. The helicopter erupted in a ball of flame. I could hear sirens in the distance.

Down I went into the warmth and safety of the baggage car. I was a wet mess. I toweled off quickly, thrust everything back into the Gladstone, threw on the raincoat, and put my hair up with a French stick. I sauntered as casually as possible forward to the lounge car, and leaned against the bar. The barman approached with a questioning look.

"Give us a Powers, neat, with branch water on the side, young man", I said with a carnivorous grin.

"Yes ma'am. Will I start a billet, or do you want it charged to your account?"

"Charge it. The name is Bond, Jane Bond..."

I awoke with a start, nearly upsetting the last of my claret. The train whistle was dying away, and the barman was giving me an amused look. Our imminent arrival at London's Saint Pancras Station was announced. I had avoided the horror that was Euston, and alit, still a bit dazed, into a busy Victorian ambiance. As I strode off towards the Underground, a large man in a dark suit approached me.

"Ms LaTour? Anna LaTour?"

"I am she. How do you know me?"

"I was given your description, to meet you at this station. The Baron has sent his car for your convenience, madame. If you will follow me..."

Riding in a Bentley is always a pleasure. Deposited at the Connaught, I encountered even greater delights when I saw the room reserved for me. My butler unpacked my things, shooting me a couple of quick, wide-eyed looks as she put away my lingerie. Most gratifying. She finished with a short lecture on services available, and took her leave. I fell back on the bed and breathed in the rarified air of this wonderful place. A small velvet box rolled off the pillow and tapped me gently. Sitting, I scooped it up and looked at it in wonder. What could it be? It certainly appeared to be a ring box. I handled it like a live grenade. Very unsettling. Rings have a way of complicating things to no end. Hmmm. I took a deep breath and slowly opened it.

There was a plastic toy ring in it, with a rolled slip of paper in the ringhole. I let out a little laugh, and pulled the paper open. It said "Meet me downstairs at 8 for dinner. You won't be sorry. B"

I looked at the clock. Just seven, so I had time for a wee rest and to make myself presentable.

How does he know these things?

Shortly after being seated in the restaurant and receiving a rather chaste kiss from himself, I was alerted to the possibility that this might not be your ordinary evening by a loud shriek and a whoop, with laughing, from the lobby. Forthwith, Tante Severine steamed around the Maitre d' in full cry, towing a mortified Kate behind her. Shy Kate was blushing hotly, and Severine was giggling in a very French manner. She was not shy, not in the least. I stood and we all passed out hugs very freely, and for a short time it was as if a flock of large and noisily good-natured birds had come to ground in Espelette.

When we had cleared away the gossip, and Kate had gotten over what Severine said to the gentleman at the desk who'd never heard of me, tante looked at me gravely, and said "I have just received some News."

I looked around at everyone's poker face. Himself gave me a wide-eyed shrug. "What news? What do you mean?"

"About Crescent. I am thinking that we know who has her."

"Don't tease me-what the bloody hell-oops-do you MEAN?" My hand flew to my mouth and I looked around guiltily. Bad form to curse in public. Still, I was getting worked up. "Please explain, Auntie."

For an answer, she handed me a letter, in a cream envelope, cotton rag paper, deckled edges. It appeared to have been written with a fountain pen. The text read:

Miss Anna LaTour-I hope you had a good trip over. I was disappointed that you did not arrive with your filly, Crescent. I have wanted to meet you for some time, but it seems we have missed one another again. I apologize for the convoluted scenario, but I'm afraid that I tend to indulge my flair for the dramatic from time to time. I did need her here at the Curragh for evaluation by my people, and possibly some wedding planning. We have some friends in common, and when I heard that you were coming over, it seemed like a good idea. Be assured that your Crescent will be well looked after, and within the year she will be near enough to visit whenever you like.

JP

I set the letter down, and looked around. Everyone was looking at me expectantly. Kate piped up "Isn't it GREAT?"

I was crying, again...and then the champagne arrived.

Chapter 9

"Auntie Severine? Sev? Are you there? What IS that noise? The BIRD? I didn't think Bill was capable of such a racket-he's usually so reserved. It sounds like the rainforest over there. There ARE toucans in the rainforest, isn't that right? Yes, of course...well give him a cracker or whatever, and perhaps he'll belt up. What? He wants your galette? Now I've heard it all. We'll read about it in the Times: Toucan attacks woman for breakfast treat, pictures on page three, not for the squeamish, or some such nonsense. Next you'll be telling me he drinks your cafe au lait as well-through a straw. Right, I forgot-that's Claude does that...no, dear, I know he can't use a straw. He's a cat, though he doesn't seem to know it. Anyroad my love, what time for lunch at Harrod's? Oh dear me no, you know that's too early. I won't be ready to eat then, I just savaged a lovely omelet downstairs. Aye, it was no contest...we'll make it high tea, then. That will be just lovely. They serve that on the roof, right? NO, Sev-that was a JOKE... Bit of shoparound first, what? Brilliant, see you then, dearie!"

I rang off, exhausted. Talking to Auntie Severine can be wearing. There's always something happening around her. She's like a storm generator, but usually it's a good thing. Poor Kate is doubtless receiving a series of eye-openers. Sev never stops, and she rarely stops talking either. One should insert long pauses between each of my statements above, as I wait for an opening to interject. And she was still going strong when I rang off, but it's either that or one never gets away. She knows me, and doesn't take offense. She just picks up the next time where she left off.

I gave myself a shake-back to reality. Even a short while in Auntie Severine's world can be disorienting. I was feeling much better since I learned that Crescent would be in good hands, and receiving callers when she's at home. Much like myself, I giggled.

Now, I should be about sorting her ladyship out. I looked in the mirror, and recoiled in horror. Ugh! I'm a right mess, so I am. Off to the shower, pulling pins from my chignon and shaking out my hair as I ran the water hot and hotter. The wee skirt and jumper did for my breakfast, but I must be at the top of my game for tante, She'll be dressed to the nines, and making it look effortless, as always. I thought about my portable trousseau, what to wear, and as always digressed into the lingerie, sorting different pieces into the two lines, LaTour du Jour and ce Soir, as I soaped my body and washed my hair. All my mental juggling, and such fun to make it come real! Much pinning and sewing of lovely fabrics and ribbons and such, Sarita tutting and scaling back my tendency to go right over the top with things. We always have a grand time working up the prototypes in the ‘factory', as we like to call it. It's just a room downstairs I did over for dressmaking. And then there's Kate-dear Kate-who does the research for the little histories of design and fabrics included on the tag. She's the calmer, more sensible facet of our tiny organization. She's always level on the level, but very good in a pitched battle. I'd begun asking her along on vendor presentations. She often sees things that I don't, and I always appreciate her help.

Thinking in the shower...

Now, that's better! I threw on a cranberry velvet sheath, thanking the gods of fashion for spandex, and topped it with a dove-grey herringbone jacket with matching cranberry velvet collar, lace hankie in the top pocket, pearls, black patent peeptoe slingbacks, and the Black Hole over my shoulder. Two squirts of Number Five and I was good to go. I'll say nothing about the lingerie, but I was feeling good and sexy underneath. Oops, almost forgot my gloves-an absolute necessity! And they're off...

I called down, and the staff, alerted that Miss LaTour was on the move, met me in their several incarnations as I passed through the lobby, each bestowing a gift. I received a bottle of water, some chocolate, and one old guy with snowy hair gave me a small box of raisins and a wee wink. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that last, but otherwise my traverse was entirely satisfactory, I must say. Peter had the Bentley round, and I was whisked to Harrod's in short order.

"I want to see that movie, with the new James Bond in it", I whispered to Kate, across the lemon curd. Sev was on the phone again, sorting out her petsitter or something. She shut it with a pop and looked at me.

"What? What movie? They're all so boring, dear."

"That's because your life is so interesting, Tante Severine", I cooed. "You'd best get a scone before I eat them up." "Wicked child, you'd starve your Auntie if I didn't have you watched at all times."

I tutted and pointed at the teapot. "Shall I be mother, then?" I was just a bit over 5 years younger than my dear aunt, but it pleased her to refer to me as far junior to herself. Aunt Severine has her notions-not to say she's odd, like.

"Yes, of course dear-more tea. More is better, just as in the movies. But movies today have no passion. When I see a movie, I want to be enrage', delire, passionne'! I want to FEEL!!!"

"I like it when stuff blows up good", I said, to get Auntie's goat, trying to keep a straight face. She didn't take the bait, only looked at me all smug and slitty-eyed.

*I want to be entertained and forget my woes, not be reminded of them or have new ones forced on me," stated Kate matter-of-factly, flashing me a look that was as close as she could come, under the circumstances, to a poke in the ribs. I giggled, drawing my feet up shorter under the table, so as not to be kicked.

I stuck my tongue out at Kate and said "You mean like when you go to Mardi Gras and swill rum?"

"I swore off rum years ago," Kate said warily. "After Mardi Gras...and a night or two I can't quite remember...and a handful of beads from one of the floats, in my possession. I was much younger."

"Uh oh," I said, and laughed again.

"No more rum - ever. Especially hurricanes"

"So just what did you flash to get those beads, dearie? One wonders," I said, and whistled innocently.

"I'm sure you can use your vivid imagination, dearie", Kate replied tartly. "You are incorrigible. I will have to be careful what I tell you."

"You must tell me EVERYTHING", purred Aunt Severine, looking at Kate with a new appreciation.

My phone tinkled. The number was unfamiliar, but a friend of mine always advocates adventure, so I answered.

"Hello? Yes, this is Anna. How...? Yes, by all means!"

Kate managed to stretch over and kick me. "Who WAS it?" She stage-whispered.

"Oh, just our friend JP," I said, breezily. "He asked to join us!"

Severine burbled the throaty chuckle she gave out whenever she conspired with herself to make life more interesting. I checked her plate for yellow feathers, but there were only a few jammy scone crumbs...

Chapter 10

"How interesting!" I crowed. "Here's this mysterious gentleman I've sideswiped so often this last while, and HE'S called ME to join US!"

"What a remarkable turn of events!" trilled Severine, and I fixed her with a basilisk eye.

"One can only imagine how he got my phone number, Auntie" I murmured with palpable suspicion in her general direction. She gazed into the middle distance, innocently. "Does the catalog go into THAT much detail?" I wondered. No answer. She licked her fingertip and chased crumbs, ignoring me.

"Well, anyroad, he'll be along shortly, and I'll have an answer. And I'll finally get to meet my mystery man."

Kate giggled. "Maybe Himself will be with him, and there'll be no end of interesting conversation!" I smiled at her. "Now THAT would really be asking for the moon. Come on, dear-must visit the loo before we receive visitors. Sev, you hold the side while we reinforce the battlements." Kate and I excused ourselves and strolled to the Ladies', there to make sure all was shipshape. I could turn that into a pan and bake it, so well mixed those metaphors were...

When we returned, we might have crossed into another dimension entirely.

There was a general confusion and disorder, people rising from tables, dismay and concern rippling through the room as a group of uniformed police moved from table to table, asking everyone very courteously to please evacuate the building, this way, no running please, orderly retreat and all that, all very British. I observed a portly gentleman wrap his lunch, plate and all, in his white linen serviette and slide it into his wife's purse, to her horror. Another woman was collecting the strawberries from random tables as she passed-most unusual. Severine made no bones about sweeping any stray chocolates into her handbag. "Insufficient compensation for such a nuisance", she huffed.

We made our way out and down into the street, where the confusion was compounded by passersby and rubberneckers, the curious and the morbid, hoping no doubt for the explosion I had discovered we were being evacuated to escape. A bomb threat-of all times! Great Uncle Bubba (his real name was Junior, but everyone called him Bubba), who pretended to farm a stony Arkansas hilltop while he turned out pretty good ‘shine, would've said it beat any house fire or horse...well, he would've enjoyed the hubbub, I feel sure.

I walked between Sev and Kate, our arms linked, and scanned the crowd for someone I didn't know...yet. JP probably never even made it into the building, I thought glumly.

In the crowd, in the street, I got separated from everyone. Well, not everyone, for here came Peter with the Bentley...I whistled and waved, and he crept to me through the crush. I met him halfway, and climbed upon the front to try and see Auntie and Kate.

Of course I took off my shoes. I bobbed up and down, then had a funny thought: if I'm going to dance on the hood of a Bentley, I'm wearing the wrong dress. Now where did THAT come from?

I couldn't see my ladies, but I saw a man striding away. I thought I recognized him and his big coat-he'd the same gait as the fellow who returned Pappy's hat! I tapped on the windscreen and pointed him out to Peter, who nodded and slowly began to roll in that direction. The crowd was thinning, and we made better time, I sitting like a girl on the hood while we crawled along the way.

We eventually hove alongside, and by that time he had encountered my lost companions. They were all chatting away as chummy as you please, so I crossed my legs and shouted "Ahoy, mateys! Anybody need a lift?"

Everyone looked up and everyone smiled, including me. I flashed my most brilliant debutante Vaseline grimace while doing the Beauty Pageant Wave, and both Kate and Sev burst out laughing.

"You are too funny!" Kate giggled.

"Where did you go?" I asked.

"We thought you were right behind us! Silly girl", intoned my Aunt severely, mischief in her eye.

Mr. Man wore a bemused smile. "So nice to finally meet you, Miss LaTour," he said, extending a hand. I took it and did my best to alight from the bonnet with some bit of grace, not altogether failing. I looked back and sorted out my hemline, slipped on my shoes, and blew a wisp of hair out of my face.

"You must be John Peterman," I said gravely. "It's grand to meet you, after all the near misses."

"Yes, I'd begun to think you were some sort of supernatural being, influential but intangible."

"I could say the same for you-wee boxes in the hay, hats and catalogs, then Pappy's-"

"I enjoy my little mysteries," he smiled. "They make life more interesting."

"I agree completely!"

We discovered very quickly that we were standing in front of a well-placed and quite decent pub, and everyone agreed that refreshments were in order. I asked Peter if he wanted to attend, but he waved me away with a smile, pointing to the phone in his ear and putting finger to lips. I arched an eyebrow, then laughed and turned with a swirl and followed all in.

Now that we were comfortable and supplied with social lubrication, all manner of details began to emerge. Severine clapped phone to ear and began to talk in a low and urgent voice. Kate sat by John and listened. He related the long tale of our various near encounters, his interest in my lingerie line, and some horse business. I was by turns amused, intrigued, and astounded at the turn of events that all our lives had taken over this last year or so. That we lived so near one another, that we had common interests-clothes, horses, and even friends, seemed almost fictional, but then I've always felt that life really is stranger than anything one could make up.

On or about that point, I felt a touch on my shoulder, and when I turned, looking up, I received a startlingly amorous kiss from Himself. It went on for some time, and just as I was about to surrender to the feeling, he broke away and beamed at me.

"Well, did they tell you?" he asked me, expectantly.

"Tell me what?"

"I suppose they didn't," he said pleasantly, looking questioningly at John, then Sev, who had that canary-consuming smirk again. It was he whom she had called, I am fairly sure. I looked around.

"Since I appear to be the only unenlightened soul present, I would greatly appreciate it if someone would tip us the nod." I was beginning to feel a tiny bit exasperated.

John said "I'd like to work with you on a line of travel clothing as well as your lingerie, if you're interested. That's one thing, or maybe two things. Crescent is a very special horse, and her genetic heritage has been traced to an even more interesting animal. That's a whole lot of things."

Here my imp of a Baron leaned over and whispered a name into my ear, and my eyes went wide. "They're all related to-?" I began, but he placed two fingers on my lips and looked around conspiratorially.

"Shhh!" he hissed, sternly. I shushed.

John continued: "Some friends of mine want to partner with our mutual friend here"-with a nod to my darling-"to do a bit of horse breeding too, if you'd be amenable. That was what our meeting was supposed to be about, but the others are scattered about town now, probably investigating the Scotch situation," he chuckled. "What do you say?"

Kate, who I think had been holding her breath the whole time, whooshed and said "YES-what do you THINK, Anna? Isn't this the bee's pajamas? Or the cat's, or whatever..."

She was clearly a bit excited about the whole business.

Severine purred "Well, darling, there's no rush. We're in London, and while it's not Paris, there's a lot for a girl to do while she makes up her mind."

"It's a lot to think about," I murmured, a bit stunned. My head was reeling, actually.

"We have time," said John Peterman, good-naturedly. "There are a few shops I need to poke around in, and we can get together as soon as you'd like and talk details." He handed me a card.

"Oh yes, and by the way," said Himself, off-handedly, "Might I ask something of you too?"

"This seems to be the day for it!" I laughed.

I was amazed to see him slide out of the booth and drop down beside me, his lovely flannelled knee upon the doubtful lino of the pub floor. He took my hand tenderly and looked up at me.

"Would you be a love and marry me soon? I just really think I can't go on without you near and dear and all that, heart of my heart. I love you right down to the ground, and...and..." here he blushed and stammered like a schoolboy with a book report. I went right into his arms and he stood to take me. I couldn't honestly tell you if the place erupted into applause, or the beating of my heart drowned out the world.

But it was good, whatever it was.

Yikes, that's huge. Sorry!
Our host actually liked #7...

Sing ho for the pencil stub in hand
Sing hey for the keyboard grey
Hurray for the words at end of day
Hurrah for the ampersand!

This is why we write...

OLIVIA--- Did Cary Grant apologize for being suave & debonair? Did Elizabeth Taylor apologize for being ravishingly beautiful? Did Julia Child apologize for being a giantess? Does Sergio Castelleti apologize for having a beautiful Italian nose? I think not....
 
No apologies my dear. Thank you......

Olivia ~ standing ovation, rousing round of applause, and cries for an encore...I enjoy every morsel of your creative imagination! Thank you for sharing your gift of story telling with all of us.

 
Well, that's the last time I'll say: "Just sit down and read this," and then, look at a bunch of backs for an evening while the fronts take turns at Olivia's epic and expressing amazement.

Bebe,

Giantess? Why is that so funny?

Kindlee,

Re: Sat. 02/13/10  1D. Zarf?? Weirdly, I had coffee dozens of time at the old Northrup Jones Restaurant in Omaha where I had one in my hand without any idea what it was.  

Oliva: I love it!

MASTER FUL, Olivia ....... Absolutely Masterful .............. Certainly, there is more ???
 
I have missed you ..............

Stoney ~ That is precisely why I attempt to work them out...oh, the things I discover!