As I'm writing this, the alarms are going off, sounding the certain destruction of one, fateful egg. (We read Orwell today)

Mike apparently was not around for the first set of false alarms, and in his ebullience at turning the yoke into a scramble, released a cloud of smoke into the apartment, which the alarm sounded to the residents of Lexham Gardens. They got well-adjusted to sirens in the 1940s, so I'm sure they don't care too much. They're stalwart folk, with constitutions fortified with mayonnaise incessant.

Having now planned most of the trips, I'll say to you that it's very important to win at least four consecutive Superball lotteries or be the son of someone named Rockefeller to live very comfortably in London. So, make the necessary arrangements. It's not so bad when you first look at it -- a small burger, you'll find, costs 5 pounds. Now multiply that by the current dollar conversion rate, which has the proportions of the old (hot) Barbie's bust-to-waist.

But Rome's been booked -- two weekends from now. So has Barcelona, to see the feminina!, in three weeks. Then there's spring break -- maybe a long date with the Weissman? (Nils, who's hermiting around Europe before returning to a school in Greece that by all evidence doesn't require attendance or any sort of inclination toward work).

Anyway, more pictures! AHHHHH, ON BBC2 THEY'RE SHOWING PICTURES OF A FAT GUY'S POOP!



To the French! (The British hate them more than we could ever comprehend)

It's the tower for a Swiss financial group. The Brits call it the "Sexual Gherkin."

To the French! History dog pees!