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Musings (from a Sunday)

i ordered this year’s licence plate sticker on line today (note day above) which reminded me of days of yore when you lined up, outside, in 40 below (either scale) temperatures, along with 10,000 other unfortunate souls, during the week no less, to get a new piece of metal.

There were some pluses: you got a new plate with a new number which meant you could proudly nail the old plate to the inside wall of your garage to cover up the gaps in the wall and you got to wait expectantly to see if your new plate were unique like 000 001. And the wait expectantly continued with how the new colour combination would  clash with your car’s paid-extra-for paint. Then some bitter soul, doubtless cold from waiting in line mentioned above, pointed out that those special numbers were reserved for special people and they didn’t have to line up to get them.

The cynic in me suspects that one of those special people ran the licence bureau.

My hope is that since the computer and I are doing all the work to get my ‘sticker’ that the number of employees to handle the processing has dropped from several hundred to two: somebody to mail me my sticker while the other’s on break.

Speaking of expired license plates, I had let it slip one year so, when this happens, you can’t do it via the computer but must show up at the license bureau. I believe it’s so they can give you a ‘naughty boy’ lecture-and-look and probably take an extra dollar from you. In any case, I was assuming my ‘What are the odds?’ fear that I’d be stopped driving to the bureau with expired plates. At the next stop sign, I checked my rear view mirror to see if the constabulary were lurking and the older driver behind me, not of the police persuasion thankfully, was focused on my car and was definitely and defiantly pointing at my expired sticker. I swear that had he gone for his phone I would have caused a commotion.

(Lead article in tomorrow’s Daily Drivel) “Talk about road rage; old person in car with expired plates, stumbles out of his car and shuffles menacingly towards older person in car behind who was wagging a pointing finger at old person’s expired sticker. Old person menacingly taps on older person’s window and older person wisely turns off his phone. It was that close to becoming a fuss.”  – editor

Why are older men allowed to drive? Have they nothing better to do than look for things that nobody with an ounce of testosterone would be interested in? There are drop dead gorgeous females wearing nothing at all out there walking the streets, look for them and at them! Leave my plates alone!

This story had a happy ending and since then I’ve been diligent in renewing my plates ahead of time. But check with me in a year’s time.

took in my car for its first time servicing the other day. Always a scary event; they find so much that’s wrong and expensive to fix with the car. How do they do that? How could I be the cause of that? I just drive the darn thing.

“Looks like you’ve been making an awful lot of left turns, Mr. Legon.”

“How if I turn right into my neighbour’s driveway then back up onto my driveway; would that balance things out?”

One thing the modern car dealership does in a neat way is have you drive over a sensing board embedded in the floor that tells you about your car’s alignment and tire wear. The information is immediately displayed on TV monitors by the service reps’ desks. You can tell that your alignment and tire wear are OK by the disappointed looks on their faces.

While I’m on about the service department, with all this technology, what’s with all the people? You drive up to the service door that automatically opens to let you be greeted by the aforesaid automated tire assessors which doubtless have also read your licence plate which automatically knows the car’s VIN which stores every last thing about your car. “When did you start parking on curbs?”

You have the feeling that if you stayed in the car you’d never need to see anyone: your car would automatically get washed and the oil changed somehow. At the end of this automated service assembly line you’d just insert your credit card to cover the amount flashing at the exit barrier and up goes the arm.

But no, once you’re through the service door that automatically opens, you’re greeted by an individual with an iPad that has all your information. This same bunch of data is immediately available to the service reps’ desk who eagerly awaits your presence. So far, you’ve done all the work and yet the system has decided two people must accompany the process. You mentally add several dollars to your bill under the section ‘family retainers’.

To officially get the car service process moving, however, you have to put your signature to paper. It’s the year 2020, what’s with all the paper? Up to now, in the car servicing process, everything’s been digital but somehow that’s not good enough. If McDonald’s can show your order on a TV monitor for the retirée to fill, then a car dealership can do the same thing for the junior trainee mechanic considering your car.

Your wonder of wonders, your smartphone, the whiz bang gadget that can get you into the theatre without producing paper; that can pay for your parking without producing paper; that can prove to anyone who your are without producing paper cannot get your car serviced without producing paper. Remind me to buy stock in Montreal based Abitibi Bowater, the eighth largest pulp and paper company in the world.

But all this automated sensory sensing got me to thinking; couldn’t a doctor’s office get on this bandwagon?

“Mr. Legon, I’m Gisele, your service representative. We’ve introduced some new technology to both help us be as knowledgeable about you as we can and service your needs as quickly as possible –  another gold star for socialized medicine. Would you please step on that sensing board embedded in the floor that you can’t avoid? Thank you.”

“Oh …. I notice you pronate. The doctor will certainly want to have a look at that.”

(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh ….”

“Oh  oh …and the wear on your left foot is more than on your right foot.”

(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh oh …”

And why not have doctors’ offices install the body scan that embarrasses you at the airport?

“Good looking liver Mrs. Gowski, seems to be handling your bottle-a-day chardonnay nicely.”

And wouldn’t that also speed up the parts delivery?

“Thanks to your body scan, Mrs. Feldstein, while you were waiting absorbed in the picture magazine, ‘What the Royals do to work up a sweat,’’ we were able to order you a reconditioned spleen.“

Can’t leave the dealership without a word about the sales department.

I’ll call him Donald, which is what his mother calls him even though his friends know him as ‘Tub’.

Donald is pushing early sixties, grey hair, paunch, suit, somewhat off-white shirt but no tie and wearing what we politely call in the fashion world, doesn’t-go-with-anything deck shoes. And his feet have got the senior shuffle down pat. You can’t greet Donald with a non-car topic without a rejoinder that somehow embeds some unrelated feature of a car you’re not interested in on which you suspect he gets his biggest margin.

“Nice day.”

“Nice day for air-conditioned seats made of faux-corinthian leather only available on this week’s hybrid special.”

Donald makes no effort to prospect. You suspect that if someone didn’t walk into the showroom, plop down at his desk and sign a blank cheque, Donald would miss his sale-a-month quota.

“How was your day, dear?”

“Busy, busy, busy; you can’t imagine what today’s car buyer wants?”

“Understanding their needs and value?”

“All they want is a discount.”

“What about understanding their needs and value?”

“I know what they want. And you can’t sell them value, value doesn’t get the old pulse pumping and, anyway, you wouldn’t understand the subtleties of selling.”

“You know that table saw that you never use? Mr. Caruthers, next door, wanted to build a fence and when I found out he didn’t have a table saw and explained how much you got out of one, he expressed an interest and I said he could have it ….”

“What?”

“… for $400. You paid what? $600 a few years back? I also threw in a weekend of your time to explain its dated features.”

the car saga continues. Made the big decision to buy a certified car part. You know the dilemma: do I spend $150 for something that fits and bears the car’s brand name or 2. Do I spend $19.95 for something that should fit and has ‘Tom’s Garage’ prominently displayed.

We’ve all been through the exercise, rationalizing the ‘el cheapo’ purchase and not sleeping at night.

So, I bit the bullet and got the over-priced-brand-product (OPBP to save going mad retyping this descriptive phrase). The OPBP includes instructions, crude instructions that don’t begin to match the accompanying bag of parts. You conclude that this is an OPBP one-size-fits-all-models (No, I’m not going to use OPBPOSFAM) and hence comes with a bag of bits and pieces to cover every known model most of which your model doesn’t need.

But I’m on top of it. Rather than drive from the dealership and realize something’s just not right and having to return, I decide to install the cargo net, yes, a cargo net in the dealership’s parking lot. What could go wrong? We’re not talking fluid mechanics here with the required years of education and experience.

The object is to install four hooks to hold the cargo net and bless me if two hooks aren’t already there. Sure pays to buy the deluxe model. This further confirms my suspicions that this OPBP is truly OPBPOSFM (Sorry, I lied, you’ll have to go back.)

What could be simpler, only two hooks to install but the limited instructions suggest that they be installed in some unimaginable spot.

The following had to have made someone’s day. I get in the trunk, turn around so now I’m lying on my back in the trunk with my feet dangling outside. This is the only way I can see inside the trunk where the limited instructions say the cargo net is to be attached.

Someone has to be watching me when I decide to try to get out of the trunk. We’re I younger, I could probably slide out and laugh this off. In my present state, I’m faced with the strong possibility of not getting out of my trunk. I figure the odds are 50 -50 that getting back out the way I came in will be just as painful and awkward as releasing the back seats and exiting through the back door mens sana in corpore sano.

“Hey, Rosy, come at look at this idiot stuck in his trunk feet flailing away.”

I get out the way I came in, leg cramps and all, barely landing on my two feet.

I look around, do a little dusting to give me time to regain consciousness, admit failure, humble myself and return to the dealership. The following conversation is verbatim.

(speaking to service rep) “I need help installing the cargo net, it looks like it needs a special tool.” (can’t believe I’m saying this … a cargo net needs a special tool? Really? Then installing a turbo charger would need NASA.

(service rep) Totally stunned, I would have had more success asking him to decline a Latin verb of his choice. He’s saved by a passing overalls-with-name-tag that hints at working in another department. Service rep explains, overalls-with-name-tag says you need a special tool to install a cargo net (I’m partially chuffed; hey, I know what I’m not doing.)

I politely wait for the expected answer but instead get, “Fred has the special tool.” (Pause) “Fred’s in quarantine.” (Pause) “The special tool’s in Fred’s toolbox. (Pause) “Only Fred has the key.” (Pause) “Fred has the keys with him.”

I’m home now. I’m starting to act sensibly (there’s nobody around). It can’t be this hard so I search the internet. Of course there’s no video that exactly matches my car but the first video that qualifies in theory says it takes 48 minutes to install a cargo net in my make (not necessarily year or model) of car. I start to watch. Here’s this seasoned pro ripping apart the trunk and using tools that need a compressor to get up to high speed.

I go back to the car. It can’t be this hard and I think I’ve figured it out. To test my theory, I take out the cargo net and hook it onto one ring and then stretch it to hook it onto the ring across the way and …

… the cargo net is 30 cm short.

Epilogue

Well, it’s eat crow time for me. Found detailed, illustrated instructions on the internet provided by a US Honda dealer, not corporate Honda.  And, it turns out, you do need a special tool to affix the rivets to the trunk door frame. I’ve a call into the local dealership to see if they’ll let me borrow this precious item because I don’t want to pay them to do it. (Because I’ve already paid for the cargo net; how much? I don’t want to tell you how much I paid for this woven wonder obviously hand made by Chinese maidens.) And the already-installed hooks are not for this item; they’re just hooks. So I have to install the supplied hooks and that involves drilling holes into the trunk liner. They cautiously advise you to make sure to mark the depth of the drill bit otherwise you could add vent holes to your trunk … Stay tuned.

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Musings (from a Thursday)

If you could will yourself to drive with both hands on the wheel you would never get fined for talking on the phone while driving.

OK, so you can’t express yourself fully without the emphasis of the free hand making a point which makes the officer aware you’re talking on the phone which makes answering the call from your Mother well worth the $210.

Forgotten but not gone:

  • Golf club covers. Back just a generation, drivers: 1, 2, 3 & 4 woods, were made of persimmon and they had a fancy finish that owners loved to protect hence the covers. Today’s drivers are made of metal and don’t need the same level of loving care but the covers persist. And they persist down to the putter which, to my mind, has never needed protection of any kind unless, of course, you’re prone to losing it in the pond beside the green.
  • Following up on the above, golfers must have a love – hate relationship with covers as they are the article most often left behind.
  • Hitting it on the screws, a euphemism for finding the sweet spot on the club started with wooden drivers. The sweet spot was a measure of plastic that was screwed into the heart of the wooden face of the club, hence hitting it on the screws. Not possible today but the expression lives, and oft heard but probably not related when you don’t hit your drive well, “Screw this.”
  • As an aside, one of my wooden drivers of long ago dried out with the head flying farther than the ball one day. I recovered the broken pieces which included lead weights to add the required mass. I don’t believe this is where the expression, ‘Get the lead out,’ started.
  • Running boards. Our family had a Nash of indeterminate age and it sported a quasi-running board. Research isn’t clear why there were running boards on modern era cars but at one time they were obviously there to add a step to entering the vehicle so one can assume that without them it would have been difficult to get on board, so to speak. Today’s trucks have brought them back so boards are both back out and back in.
  • No, not our Nash. We had the sports model.
  • 1936 Cord, first ‘modern’ car without a running board.

In 1976 the federal government added $100 to the price of a car if you ordered the vehicle with air-conditioning. This was the era of punishing owners of ‘gas guzzlers’ and air-conditioning was considered an unnecessary waste of gas hence the tax. There were arguments that air-conditioning actually saved gas but to no avail. Since almost every car today comes with air-conditioning as a standard feature the tax is considered inflationary especially since a ‘gas-guzzling’ electric car also bears this added expense.

I dreamt I ran for the house of commons in the federal parliament on a platform of killing the $100 air-conditioning fee and got elected surprisingly easily seeing as I was up against an opponent who wanted to start an adopt a racoon and/or Canada goose program. Maybe not too surprisingly but you can never figure out those militant nature lovers. Anyhow, on the first day in Ottawa, the whip called me into his chambers and to discuss my $100-no-more program.

“Congratulations on being elected and on such a strong platform, the party’s impressed but the party was wondering, you know, if you’ve thought this through. I appreciate that you did well in the arts and your graduate paper on ‘Latin isn’t just for pharmacists’ is worth a re-read but we’re looking at revenues in the range of $200 million annually. How do you plan to make up this loss?” This was said politely but you felt he saw me as easy pickings; junior member and all.

“Well,” I countered, “since the money didn’t go towards the environment but just got dumped into general revenues, why don’t we just cut $200 million out of the general expenses dump?”

“Any particular expense you had in mind?” he countered my counter with narrowing eyes.

“Well, we’d pick up an easy $20 million cutting the members salaries by 10%,” I innocently offered. Ignoring the whip’s intake of breath, I continued, “I sorta figured that kind of thinking would be a good start and, among other things, probably get me re-elected.”

“This chicken ain’t ready for plucking,” thought the whip, “Ha, ha, love your sense of humour,” followed by a life threatening cough but he soldiered on,

“There’s an opening in the agri ministry studying ways to market the potato beetle to unsuspecting countries who didn’t take Latin, Leptinotarsa decemlineata has that je-ne-sais-quoi sound of some value which you probably already know from your graduate work; or there’s the plum position in the ministry of the environment promoting celibacy in our national parks, any preference?”

That’s when I woke up.

You gotta love ‘free shipping’ when you order on line; what a marketing masterpiece, how to get the customer to buy more than they want.

Let’s say you need to spend $49 to get this bonus. This is typical but it can vary and I’ve see it higher than that. Same principle.

You’ve your heart set on something, a must read book, that comes in at $24.99. Shipping, because you’re below the plimsoll line, adds $8.00. Your total bill for the book you have your heart set on, ‘Derivatives for the sophisticated investor’, is now $32.99 and your calculating mind tells you, ‘If I spend another mere $24.01, I get to save $8.00!” (exclamation point is yours.)

Back to ‘continue shopping’ looking for something that:

  • You might read or
  • You might unload as a gift

You tell yourself, “I should read ‘War and Peace.’” You ponder a moment then recover, “Would Harold like ‘War and Peace’?” Then a brain wave hits you, “I’ll put it on the bookshelf that people always see in the background when we Zoom.”

“OMG, I see you’ve read ‘War and Peace’, I’m impressed, I’ve always wanted to read that, how was it?”

“A must read, I’ll lend it to you.”

War and Peace adds $34.99 to your bill which now totals $59.98 but hey, you ‘saved’ the shipping and gained a favourable impression.

The bookstore’s computer smiles.

I have never seen, nor do I expect to see in my lifetime, a girl riding a motorcycle with a guy behind as the passenger, riding pillion as the Brits would say.

“Oh, what a terrible flip you took off your bike, here, let me help you, I’m Dr. Janice Wilson, an orthopedic surgeon. Yes, your leg is broken, I passed a hospital 20 kms back, let me help you onto the back of my Harley, hold on to me tightly and I’ll drive you to emergency. You’ve got to get that looked at as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, but that’s OK, I can hop the 20 kms.”

The girl preparing my espresso wasn’t wearing a mask nor protective hand ware. And she gave me my change in bills mostly. My paranoid inner person, once back home, threw the bills in the sink so that both hands and hard earned cash got a scrub.

There’s a myth (maybe not so mythical) that the Chicago mafia back in the ‘20s & ‘30ss bought up laudromats to hide their ill gotten gains.

You ask me do I know Al Capone? We both launder money!

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Marshmallow smarshmallow

(extract from published article) The marshmallow test is a famous psychological experiment that tests children’s willingness to delay gratification. Children are offered a marshmallow, but told that they can have a second marshmallow if they’re willing to wait 15 minutes before eating the first one. Claims that children with the willpower to hold out do much better in life haven’t held up well, but the experiment is still a useful metaphor for many choices in life, both by individuals and by larger groups.

I have no idea how I would have responded to this test as a three year old. I’m guessing, since it seems to me now that I would have interpreted it as some sort of ‘a good person doesn’t pig out’ test combined with a test of ‘do as I was told’ conditioning, I’d probably hold off but there’s another reason, a better reason, a more sound reason why I’m pretty sure I would have shown a high level of restraint: I don’t like marshmallows!1 On further reading, the children were offered a choice of incentives: marshmallow or pretzel, Again, I would have shown admirable restraint; I can’t stand pretzels either.Not then, not today. I recall trying them burnt around the campfire; what was that all about? Why would a flaming, hot glob with bits of black improve things?2 S’mores are today’s advancement on the simple marshmallow: outer graham crackers sandwich a hunk of chocolate and roasted marshmallow. What kid wouldn’t delay gratification for that?Now, had they been ju-jubes …

The original test was done in the late 60s and early 70s and there has been a lot of push back on the hypothesis but why didn’t they ask themselves at the time, ‘do kids like marshmallows?’ before testing temptation? I certainly would have skewed the results.

But I digress.

So now the million dollar question is, taking the hypothesis as sound, have I done better in life?

Hard to measure when you don’t know the scale. Well, one thing, I’ve passed the statistical age when I shouldn’t be kicking around so maybe there’s a healthy reason to leave marshmallows alone.

“So sorry for your loss; and your husband left us far too early.  Any reason for that do you suppose?”

“Well, he was a recreational pole vaulter and did get high on marshmallows.”

And what if I included my marshmallow delayed gratification result from years past in my CV?

“Now Mr. Legon, this demanding EVP position calls for someone who sees what lies ahead, doesn’t jump to conclusions and through patience still gets to enjoy one’s just deserts. What is there in your experience, Mr. Legon, that would show me you’d meet those demands and qualify for this position?”

“I held off eating a marshmallow for 15 minutes.”

“Welcome to the firm.”

So, I’m trying to come up with a test, now that the marshmallow has been let metaphorically to fall off the stick into the fire, that would accomplish what the psychologists had set out to find lo these many years.

We’d all love to know as soon as possible what it would take to be a success in our future calling. What are today’s ‘marshmallow’ tests that we have to face to guarantee our future and get to enjoy the fruits of our labours, so to speak.

This would, of course, eliminate sports. No amount of time waiting on that second marshmallow or today’s equivalent is going to lower my golf score. And I don’t see the correlation between a ‘delaying gratification’ equivalent and noting an ear-popping opera.

No, it would have to be something mere mortals can accomplish a little better than other mere mortals. So let’s work backwards and create the position and its necessary skill set and then create the test that will expose your chance of future accomplishment.

Well, I’m writing. Let’s start there. Everyone can read and write so our hypothetical position calls for the ability to be ‘more competent’ in writing. Let’s start a list of required skills:

  • Have an idea (Muses are busy people and they take holidays)
  • Able to suffer long periods of time doing nothing (affectionately known as ‘’writer’s block’ but it’s really a sign that you have no imagination
  • Ability to imagine success (somebody will buy your book who is not a relative)
  • Ability to discard futile ideas (this is almost impossible to do, how do you decide none of them is utile?
  • Ability to read (also known as plagiarism, ‘Hey, you’ve got to get your ideas from somewhere, why not an obscure writer?)
  • Ability to edit (take preceding point and turn plagiarism into ‘bright new voice.’
  • Able to take criticism (why is this here?)
  • Believe in yourself (unsuccessful egomaniacs do this all the time)
  • Believe rejection is part of the process (also part of accepting, ‘This is garbage.’)
  • You personify hope. Failed writers get work as editors (‘I know garbage when I see it.’)

So let’s table these skills with their possible tests:

You need this skillCan you pass this test?
Have an ideaBrain scan
Handle long periods of boredomStream all 98 episodes of Gilligan’s Island
Imagine successDo the math and still buy a lottery ticket
Discard inane ideasCan you crumple paper? Do you have a wastebasket?
Able to readEye chart
Able to editCan you make an ‘X’? With a red indelible Sharpie?
Take criticismPhone your mother
Believe in yourselfHave a drink, make it two
Take rejectionAsk someone to put you up for a few days; not more than a year
Have hopeBuy another lottery ticket

So, where are we? Well, it doesn’t look like we’ll be able to come up with an ‘all-in-one’ test so why not just start banging away at the keys and see what happens?

I know what works for me, a ju-jube every 15 minutes.

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1. ↑ On further reading, the children were offered a choice of incentives: marshmallow or pretzel, Again, I would have shown admirable restraint; I can’t stand pretzels either.
2. ↑ S’mores are today’s advancement on the simple marshmallow: outer graham crackers sandwich a hunk of chocolate and roasted marshmallow. What kid wouldn’t delay gratification for that?
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Laganthorp’s law: Playing the old age card

you’re what, nudging eighty? You’re in that 74 to 79 sweep of the dial where the needle reflects your physical condition, never holds steady, always seems to be slipping and moving inexorably into the colour band that indicates you’re borderline never-to-be-like-you-were

But you’re fit as a fiddle, you remonstrate; you take out the garbage with one hand; you can still pound that range ball 210 yards with the wind downhill; still suck in the gut when those young things catch your eye, but you know the day is coming: “I know I can still do that, and I will, but I think I’ll just let it ride for now. Wake me when it’s happy hour.”

The downside to this approach is you’re vulnerable to zingers:

“If you won’t get out of that chair, I’m ordering one with the electric butt lift. And I’ll hide the remote.”

“Your heart’s fine, nobody has ever died doing the dishes.”

“I’m not asking you to go to the gym; just walk to the front porch, bend down and pick up the paper.”

What you want the world to admire is your determination, your moxie, your joie-de-vivre without you actually having to demonstrate your determination, your moxie, your joie-de-vivre.

So what’s an example of showing your real age that you don’t want anyone to witness? How ‘bout, ‘Getting in an out of the car?’

In the young days, you opened the door and put your leg in first, remember? Never needed the steering wheel as a crutch; just left hand on the door sill, settle into your seat and close the door all in one smooth motion.  

Now you improvise. You open the door and typically turn your back to the seat, brace one hand on the steering wheel and with the other, grab the ‘B’ pillar, then let mother gravity take over. Then you have to swing both legs into the car and now you’re faced with closing a door that you can’t reach.

Getting out isn’t a prettier picture. You push open the door and hope it stays open, if it doesn’t, you’re close to losing an arm and a leg. You now take a minute or two getting the rhythm right so the swinging door catches the door stop and stays open; then you swing both legs out the door. Your legs haven’t touched the ground yet so with your left hand grabbing the ‘B’ pillar and your right hand searching for the ‘A’ pillar, on ‘3’ you bounce off the seat to get a bit of levity and then pull yourself forward hoping your feet hit the ground at an angle where they can provide the other 90% of momentum you need to balance yourself upright. You are now facing away from the car, in no position to close the door. You look around to see if anyone has been marvelling at this exercise in embarrassment and then shuffle 180 degrees to face the gaping doorway which lets you observe your cell phone in the centre console pocket.

So, how do you solve this predicament of looking and acting like an old codger before you want to look and act like an old codger?

Laganthorp’s Law1 When things aren’t going your way, there might be a solution to the rescue. Laganthorp’s Law is a proven mantra that you turn to when all seems hopeless. This anti-age alliteration triggers a chain reaction of old memories that smoothed over challenging situations in the past which you can now draw on to smooth over challenging situations in the present. Remember the times you were gob smacked when witnessing that perfectly timed ‘bon mot’ which saved the situation and prompted you to remark, “Wish I’d thought of that.”? Laganthorp’s Law brings it all back. Laganthorp’s Law googles that vast reservoir of experiences to find the one that triggers your brain to force you to open your mouth and say, “Dear, I’ll get the car and meet you at the front.”

Can’t help but draw the admiring response, “Thank you, what a nice thought.”

But wait, slow down the smirk, the devil in you points out, with evil intent, once you pull up to the front door, “Shouldn’t a man of refinement, like yourself, get out and open the door for one’s spouse?”

Indeed, again you call on Laganthorp’s Law which kicks in and prepares you to welcome the idea of unlocking the passenger door and leaving it a bit ajar before you tackle your own entry. And that snow scraper still in the back seat in July? Just the ticket to push open the passenger door from your seat. The clincher? Before executing this legerdemain, offer to get out of the car and open the door for her. Studies2 Soon to be published high school essay have shown that no woman, 0% have ever said, “Sure, I’ll wait.”

Now the savvy, gentler sex sceptic might argue that you’ve rounded down that 0.004 percent to get to 0.00% so somebody in the survey might have actually said, “Sure, I’ll wait,” so you have to be prepared for this.

Once again Laganthorp’s Law saves the day. At your age, leg cramps are as common as the cold. Once she says, “Sure, I’ll wait,” Laganthorp’s Law has your brain tell you to grab your leg, let out a stifled, ‘cramps’ and go into your realistic-cause-you’ve-experienced-it-so-often-in-real-life-it’s-easy-to-imitate spasm and start to leave the car. The difficulty you have actually trying to leave the car looks like severe cramping so she’ll either have to say, “Oh, that’s OK, don’t bother, I know how you feel, I get them all the time,” and open the door herself or wait the four and a half minutes it takes you to get out of the car and shuffle to her side of the car and open her door. This also covers your awkward re-entry into the car. Once behind the wheel, rub your leg for a minute and give her that pained grin with a pseudo-smiley, “Good to go.”

Assuming she’s among the 99.99% who doesn’t say, “Sure, I’ll wait,” and hence hasn’t seen you struggle to get out of the car, to avoid the challenge of showing your age when you hit the mall, drop her off at the entrance to the store and draw on the blessed Laganthorp’s Law face-saving line, “Go ahead, I’ll just park the car, catch up with you later.”

If you’re feeling chuffed, offer to get out and open the door for her. If she says, ‘I’d like that,” or some other insincere test, call on your Laganthorp’s Law cramp routine. (see above)

Oft heard reward of all this? ‘He’s such a gentleman.”

Next week: putting on your socks.

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1. ↑ When things aren’t going your way, there might be a solution
2. ↑ Soon to be published high school essay
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R T

Your boy is at it again, I see,” J.J., aka Jim Jenkins, the senior detective at 5th division, announces from across the squad room; you could almost taste the smirk. He obviously wanted to rub it in and make sure everyone got to enjoy my pain.

‘My boy’, is none other than Mr. James Moriarty, yes, that Mr. Holmes’ Moriarty. I label him that because I’ve never been able to apprehend him. He’s evaded me every time. And what hurts, really hurts, is I think I’m pretty clever. At least clever enough to know when I’m outsmarted. But I persevere; I’m a detective after all.

“What manner of mischief is so important to interrupt the challenge of your crossword J. J. – recognizing the demand it puts on your limited powers of concentration?” I dart the question back in an italicized voice telling everyone within hearing distance that I can give as good as I get.

Now the squad room is on high alert; nothing like a verbal tennis match to brighten up the day.

“He robbed a bank,” relished J, J.,”and it took two days before anyone discovered it.” A not too subtle laugh poisoned his barb. “Shouldn’t take you more than a week to give up on this one,” came the shot heard round the room.

I should explain that J. J. isn’t biting the hand that feeds him, mocking the constabulary, because Mr. Moriarty is sort of a celebrity in so far as he’s taken on a Robin Hood patina that has endeared him to the public.  Mr. Moriarty commits crimes that aren’t too serious, white collar crimes where nobody gets hurt and not much money nor trouble changes hands. Worse, the police never catch him and that puts the public on his side.

I’m Rupert Tillinghast, detective of long standing and longer suffering, and somehow, over time, I’ve become the fall guy to Mr. Moriarty’s shenanigans. I represent the police to his world and I’m good press cause I volunteer to face the faces of the bemused scrum of reporters.

“So Tillinghast, Rupert,” is typically how the wiseacre press starts,”what ingenious plan do you have to bell our cat this time?”

I play along, I’m up to the challenge; I have semi-thick skin and a combative sense of humour that is bullet proof to most diatribe that’s fired my way.

“Slow news day, boys?” I zing. “Speaking of cats, none up a tree today to force you to look up multisyllabic descriptors? What will you computer strained wretches have to write about when we bring this tabby to ground? It’s my humouring this jokester that keeps you getting paid.”

“Oh blather not, Tillinghast,” comes thepseudo Shakespeariancounter, “admit it, Sherlock, he’s got you on the run.”

I conjure up a response, “Mark my words thee distemperate fooleth, tis he who’ll soon be hot footing it to the cooler, to use an oft-saith phrase. See you anon.”

I always try to leave them with a quote they have to look up. I exit, buying time and wondering what I’ll have to do to close the story on Mr. Moriarty.

(Next day)

“Welcome to our branch, Mr. Tillinghast, I’m Jessica Lin,” comes the warm, wondrous greeting from this vision from the financial world. Bank managers have changed for the better over the years.

“Thank you Ms. Lin,” is the only witty thing I can think of blinded as I am by her perfect teeth, perfect hair and perfect form. What can I say? Words failed me.

“I’m here about the robbery.”

“Yes, let me get Melissa, our senior teller, she was the one who’s involved.”

Ms. Lin leaves for a moment and I scope her office. No picture of hubby and children to ruin my day but a diploma on the wall that emphasizes her ability to glamourize the wonders of debt and a bronze star congratulating her on at least five years of sticking it out.

“Mr. Tillinghast, this is Melissa LaLiberté, pronounced La – Lee – ber – tay, like the French, the teller who was involved.”

Ms. LaLiberté is a well-rounded mademoiselle of indeterminate years who probably saw herself as ahead on the experience curve and ready for promotion until she ran into our Mr. Moriarty.

“Please tell me what happened,” I start,professionally taking the chill off the room.

“This man introduced himself as bank security and showed me some identification.”

“Do you recall his name?” I professionally enquire.

“Yes, Roberto Throgmorten, I remembered it because it was such as unusual last name.”

It’s my Moriarty, all right, loves to use my initials to create his noms-de-plume and give me a shot. He’s been Roger Trainwhistle; Reggie Transponder; Rufus Tutu and so on. I hate him.

“Yes, go on Ms. LaLiberté,” swallowing the bad taste in my mouth.

“Well, he said the bank was being plagued by bogus $100 bills and wanted to give our branch a heads up. He then showed me a bogus $100 bill and asked me to get a real $100 from the cash to show the differences.”

I could see this coming; well, I’m a detective.

“Let me save you the pain, Ms. LaLiberté, he left with the real $100 bill and you returned the bogus to cash.”

“How did you know?” putting her hand to her mouth in awe.

I was sorely tempted to say, “I’m a detective, a highly skilled detective, with an IQ in the far right region of the bell curve, excessively trained to handle complex matters, master in hand-to-hand physicality, borderline genius etc. etc.” but I demurred.

“We’ve seen this before.”

Ms. Lin interrupted. “Don’t be upset, Melissa, it’s difficult to recognize these situations.”

I interrupted Ms. Lin’s interruption. “What can you tell me about this individual … apart from his unusual last name? Twinturbo, I believe?”

“Throgmorten,” she corrected. “Well, he wore a hat.”

“She means a fedora,” Ms. Lin contributed.

The old hide the face trick, I calculated.

“And he was nice,” Melissa creatively remembered.

Ms. Lin figured things out. “Thank you Melissa, you’ve been very helpful.”

“So,” I summarized once Melissa had left, “you’ve been robbed of $100.”

“It seems so,” agreed Ms. Lin.

“I’d like that bogus bill and a copy of your security tape, please Ms. Lin.”

“Certainly, I’ll send them over to your office right away. And thank you for coming.”

Wait’ll J.J. gets a hold of this one, I ruminate ruefully, making my way out of the bank.

And the press!

Bank robbed of $100, massive man hunt under way. Downtown metropolis cordoned off. Military on stand by. Rupert Tilliinghast, master detective, enemy-to-those-who-make-him-an-enemy heading up investigation. Again

(Day three)

The entertainment world has made the viewing public aware of ‘cold cases’; situations that didn’t get solved but should get looked into when things warm up and/or cool down. This $100 robbery qualifies for ‘frozen, never to be thawed, cases’. What are you supposed to do? Moriarty is playing with us, he’s the Scarlet Pimpernel of the 21st century, throwing multiple metaphors into the mix.

And what if I did, somehow, apprehend him? The judge would probably charge him with, “Well done. Now, off you go.”

But there was some pressure to do something, while the police hierarchy would like me to spend all my time catching every flavour of bad people, it was forced to encourage me to give some token effort in apprehending this nuisance. The police chief, with the skill to suppress a smile while mouthing serious syllogisms, would say, sounding like my Mother, that ‘this kind of behaviour was not to be tolerated; It gave the wrong impression to the susceptible youth of today’ and so on and so on.

I reviewed the bogus bill. Our Melissa must have had a touch of the vapours that day. Or had been overcome by Moriarty’s nicety as this bogus bill wouldn’t have passed muster by anyone with a modicum of sensory sensitivity. He got the colour right but that was about it. The paper was somewhere on the spectrum between household wax paper and tin foil. The number 100 was Times New Roman on one side and Bodini Bold on the other. And you’d think even our Melissa would have puzzled over the picture of Brian Mulroney.

Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt, she doesn’t get to handle $100 bills that often.

The tapes didn’t shed any light either. Our Mr. Moriarty’s back isn’t distinguished and that fedora covered the rest. All I could take away from this evidence was our Mr. Moriarty was about 6 feet tall. I stretched that to two paragraphs in my report. “He was, one would say, tallish. Tallish for a man with an undistinguished back …”

I’m knee deep in high dudgeon.

So, back to basics, who is this guy?  I dug up my police academy profiling lecture notes complete with marginal question marks. Moriarty doesn’t need money; probably picked up a PhD along the way; retired maybe; lives in town and just loves to put it to me; Roberto Throgmorten indeed. But he doesn’t want to get caught because then what would he do? So he’s risk averse, picking on the gullible. His psychological chart? An introvert, obviously. Gets great pleasure out of outsmarting his opponent.

OK Randy Thingamjig, enough Freud, game on.

(Day four)

I decided to play, ‘to catch a thief’. I am going to be Mr. Moriarty for a day. ‘Smoke him out,’ as the dime novels would say. So I put a call into Ms. Lin. My perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect form Ms. Lin. Still at a loss for words.

“Mr. Tillinghast, how nice to hear from you, have you caught him?” I bet J.J. put her up to that.

“Love your sense of humour, no, but I’d like your help in catching him.”

“Sounds like fun, what can I do?”

“Well, if you get robbed again, in a similar fashion to the previous time, ‘Robin Hood strikes again sort of thing’, but it’s the unknown me that robs you, I think we can get our man to bristle a bit because someone’s trespassing on his territory and hopefully this will force him to show his face.”

“Wonderful, how exciting, what do I do?”

“What could be set up so that the bank gets robbed but nobody gets hurt?”

“Let me think …. I know, I could give you a line of credit that you could draw down on and then I could claim that there was fraud. What do you think?”

“I like it, what’s involved on my part?”

“Not much, I’ll do the paper work and create an account for you. Once you sign the papers I’ll transfer the line of credit, let’s say $5,000, to your account and you can make a withdrawal whenever you like. How’s that?”

I was going to say, ‘perfect’ but that would dilute my expansive description of her teeth, hair and form so I went for a simple unpretentious, ‘preternaturally fabulous!’

“How if you drop by at 3 o’clock this afternoon?”

“I’ll be there and thank you.”

“You’re welcome, see you then.”

A few hours to kill, just time enough to clear my desk and make sure everyone’s on side. Get those wordsmiths lined up in time for the 5 o’clock news and sit back for the roosting of the pigeon.

“Miss Lin, please, she’s expecting me, I have a 3 o’clock appointment. It’s detective Tillinghast.”

“One moment, please.”

Out of the perfect mists of the manager’s office emerges the perfect bank manager probably on the verge of giving me a hug.

“What are you doing here?” she utters in a less than perfect timbre.

“Our appointment?” I gawped not understanding her understanding.

“But the call.”

“What call?”

“Your buddy, at headquarters.”

This wasn’t sounding perfect. Not even close to fabulous.

“A buddy? Do you recall his name?”

“Ringo. Ringo Tympani.”

“Ringo Tympani?” I chewed on this for all of 3 seconds,”An unusual name.”

“I thought so, too; he called to say you’d been pulled off this case and that he’d stand in for you. He arrived around 2 and signed all the papers and left.”

“Ms. Lin, can we go into your office for a minute? (Sound of quickening footsteps and a door rapidly closing.) Thank you. Now, would you open up, er, Ringo Tympani’s account, please? (Sound of computer keys clicking) Good, now how much is in his account? (Sound of someone thinking, ‘This isn’t happening.’) $4,900? (Sound of detective dying) Would you now please permanently close that account?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ms. Lin, would you be free, now, for a drink. Or two?”

(Day five)

I’ve got to hand it to J. J., his sarcasm was more muted than expected.

“I liked your idea, while it lasted. Kinda neat, though, same bank being held up twice in the same week each time for $100.”

“How did Moriarty know?”

“Well, you’re not exactly invisible. Every press conference seems to have your mug grinning at the camera. You’re thinking he doesn’t have TV or the Internet?”

“No, it’s just that …”

“… this place leaks like a sieve, you know that; it would only take a phone call or two to find out your schedule … and… how ‘bout he followed you into the bank a couple of days ago? Did a stake out, if you need a bit of visualizing, saw you go into Ms. Lin’s office, what’s she like by the way?”

“… perfect, bloody perfect.”

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R T II

“Tillinghast”

“Captain”

“Got a call from the mayor.”

Finally, recognition for my enormous contribution to the city. I can only wonder at the accolades. The key to the city I can do without but the black- tie, invitation-only official presentation should get me to share a table with the tart, as in tangy, Mlle Canneberge, the mayor’s delectable secretary.

“Seems someone has been stealing flowers.”

(sound of dreams shattering . ….. after a suitable pause) “I’m in serious crimes, Captain.”

“Yes, I know. The mayor’s neighbour, nice little old lady I understand, has had her posies picked and she complained to the mayor.”

“And …”

“J J thinks it might be your guy.” (J J, Jim Jenkins, the poster boy if you didn’t want female recruits. I confess to working with him in number 5 division.)

“And why did the master sergeant of crowd control at mall openings think it was ‘My guy’?”

“The posie picker left a thank you note signed Rosebud Thistle, unusual name.”

“Oh, I’ve known a few thistles in my time,” I gamely volunteered.

“Rosebud.”

Two can play at this word association game. “Citizen Kane.”

“No, Rosebud, are you hard of hearing Tillinghast? Maybe you should stay away from the shooting range for a while.”

“Right and yes, unfortunately, he sounds like ‘My guy’. Any details?”

“Well, he just took her zinnias. Note said a friend of his was in hospital and zinnias were her favourite.”

“And why can’t we just leafblow this one under the astroturf, Captain?”

“The mayor said we’d look into it and report back.”

(next day)

“Thanks, J J, for fingering me for the floral finagler.”

“Wouldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t, Rupert, crime must not go unpunished,” his grin outshone the fluorescent fixtures, “and who, better than you, to dig up the dirt?”

Two officers, enjoying the exchange, couldn’t suppress a snort.

Good old Moriarty, at it again. The guy won’t leave me alone. Fortunately the press won’t hear about this or I’ll never live it down.

(telephone rings)

“Tillinghast, serious crimes.”

“Oh good, I was afraid I’d be put onto a junior patrolman to handle the mayor’s latest threat to winning the next election.”

Rats, Eustace Panama of the Times, how did he get wind of this stinker?

“Morning Eustace, always a pleasure to talk to those less fortunate. How goes the welfare beat?”

“My spies at City Hall tell me you’ve been assigned to capture the flower filcher, should make a great headline: Bobbies baffled by Begonia Bandit.”

“It’s zinnias, Eustace, get your botanicals in line. You’ll be the first to know if anything blooms.”

Now what? Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot on my plate so I might as well try to put Moriarty, excuse the pun, to bed. But how? He always snookers me. At least I have something to start on: zinnias, hospital, female patient. That should knock it down to a couple of hundred but the zinnias might be a game changer.

If I could find the zinnias then I have the patient and then I have Moriarty’s name. Worth a shot.

“Zelda, when we send out an alert, we automatically notify all the hospitals, right?”

Zelda Zalinski, Z Z, top notch, our lovely director of communications knows everybody of any importance in town both to defend the police force and to get invited to every function where buffets are de rigueur. Not that Zelda is heavyset, let’s just say that Zelda, in her lifetime, has never been known to push herself away from a table that had potato in one appetizing form or another remaining on a plate. But Zelda’s my kinda gal, always open minded and welcoming.

“What’s the bribe for this time, Tillinghast?

“Zelda, you misunderstand me, it’s not a bribe, I know you like potato latkes for breakfast.”

Examining the offering, “It must be a doozie: applesauce, sour cream and even chopped green onions.”

“The hospitals should be on the lookout for zinnias.”

“That’s a flower, not a disease.”

“Very perceptive, but this year’s crop is a killer for those with an allergy.”

“Clarify my fuzzification.”

“If you’re allergic to zinnias, and your corsage is loaded with these deadly dandelions, this year you’re going to cry your eyes out even while watching late night television. Not for the teary eyed.”

“So …”

“… so alert the hospitals and get back to me with the names of all the patients who were blessed with these beastly bouquets.”

“Is this on the up and up?”

“Zelda, do you want to be the one accused of bringing tears to the eyes of so many when you could be garnering tears of joy of at least a few? You’ll be sainted.”

“You really can ladle it, you know Tillinghast, but it should be fun. I’ll let you know.”

(next day)

“Tillinghast, start peeling those spuds, I got it down to three.”

“Zelda, my tasty tater, I’m on my way.”

“Mmm, French fries, but they look a little soggy.”

“I had to add the salt and vinegar at the truck, they don’t have those little packets, someone keeps stealing them.”

“I’ll force them down anyway, thanks. Here you go:

         Marci Mathers at the General

         Joan Green at Our Lady

         Heather Hamhurst again at the General”

“Sweet Z Z, you’re the best.”

“Potato salad’s in season.”

Two out of three at the General saves me a lot of time; I’ll start with Joan Green at Our Lady.

“And who the hell are you? (This didn’t sound like a warm lead.)

“I’m a detective with number 5 division, just want to ask you a few questions.”

“What the (bleep) about?” (You could feel my charm working.)

“The one who brought you the flowers?”

“So?”

“Just following up on a serious situation, would you tell me who that was?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me, it’s important police business.”

(pause) “Fred Withers.”

“Thank you, and can you tell me where Fred Withers lives?”

“Well you can ask him yourself, he’s right behind you.”

(Sure enough, Dr. Fred Withers is standing there in his scrubs, name tag and all.)

“May I help you?” intones all 6’ 4” of this medical muscle raising a brow of suspicion.

“Dr. Withers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, serious crimes, and we’re following up on the possibility that flowers guests drop off could carry a nasty bit of pollen.”

“And this is a serious crime? Shouldn’t you be chasing bad guys? Aren’t you guys looking for a raise? I brought those flowers for my sister.”

(pressing myself against the wall and slowly edging my way towards the door) “Yes, well, thank you, that’s fine. And they’re lovely. All the best Ms. Green.”

“Bugger off.”

Oh man, give me a murder any day. On to Marcie Mathers.

“Ms. Mathers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, would mind telling me who brought you those flowers?”

“No, I don’t mind, my Mother. What’s this all about?”

“It’s a secret investigation, sorry, very hush hush. You’ve been very helpful. They’re zinnias, right? Lovely in this light. Thank you.”

If Heather Hamhurst doesn’t pan out, Z Z’s potato salad’s getting rotten eggs.

“Ms. Hamhurst, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division doing a routine check on flowers that might be harmful to patients and would you mind telling me who brought you these flowers.?”

“No, not at all, Arty.”

(Relief at last) “Can you describe Arty?”

“Tall, good looking, undistinguished back, likes to wear a fedora.”

(Be still my heart) “And … could … you … please … give … me … Arty’s … last … name?

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re just casual friends. We met when I was walking my dog, Magwood. We’d chat, he’d scratch Magwood’s ears. That sort of thing and I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him for a few days as I was going in for minor surgery and, bless his heart, he dropped by today and left these flowers, zinnias, my favourite. So sweet.”

“Yes, zinnias, your favourite, so wonderful that he picked them. Thank you.”

(nurses’ station)

“Excuse me, I’m a detective (flashing my badge; I wonder if this could be automated?) with number 5 division, do you happen to know the gentleman who visited Ms. Hamhurst earlier today?”

“No, but I can look it up in the visitor’s book.”

(Moriarty, your days of smelling like a rose are over.)

“Oh, yes, here it is, I do remember now, so unusual.”

(gulping) “Unusual?”

“Yes, he underlines the first letter of his first and last name. Here it is.”

Rupert Tillinghast

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R T III

“So how did you figure me out?”

“It wasn’t easy and there was a bit of luck but we’re not supposed to admit that.”

(flashback)

“Rupert, your close personal friend at the Times, one Eustace Panama on line 3 for you, probably wants to write you up as the Detective of the Year.” Good old J J, couldn’t help but elevate his voice so everyone could get in on the nonsense and punctuate it at the end with a resounding belly laugh. The squad room was definitely on his side with supporting howls.

“What deathly prose does the obit editor need my help with,” I imagined?

“Eustace, always a pleasure to help anyone with their English, which euphemism for dearly departed can I proffer?”

“Feet off the desk detective, I’m actually helping you do your job. I think your guy is about to strike and I might be able to give you a head’s up.”

“Interesting, I’ve had you wrong all along, Eustace. Pray tell, which gems of detecting are you willing to share?

“Our food editor, who is welsh, is planning to celebrate the up coming St. David’s day with traditional welsh recipes and has asked our loyal subscribers for submissions and sweetened it as a contest.”

“And all this will be cleared up in your next few sentences?”

“Well, Rupert the sleuth, it’s taken you several months of wilderness wandering on this guy without success so you can afford me a few minutes of your plentiful head scratching time.”

“I’m properly put in my place, please continue.”

“So our food editor gets a recipe for welsh rarebit and it’s signed Randy Trollop. She thought that was pretty unusual so she showed it to me and that’s why I called you. Isn’t that ‘your guy’? Always coming up with weird names and first name last name starting like yours,  with an R and a T?

“I bow in your presence, Eustace, I think you’re on to something. Let me get back to you.”

So, without any wise cracks from J J, a spirited plan distills.

“Eustace, when can we three: you, the food editor and I get together?”

(next day)

“Rupert, this is Beti Thomas, our food editor; Beti this is Rupert Tillinghast a detective at number 5 division. Show her your badge, Rupert.”

(Beti breaks into an embarrassed giggle)  “It’s for my grandson, Mr. Tillinghast, when I said I had a meeting with a real detective he asked me to see your badge so I could describe it to him.”

“My pleasure Beti, I thought for a moment Eustace was making sure I was still gainfully employed by the department. Beti, I understand Eustace has explained the situation. Would you and the paper have any objection to setting a trap and awarding our RandyTrollop a prize?”

“Heavens no, it’s very exciting. And I like your suggestion that it be third prize. I doubt if anyone will suspect anything. His recipe, while dated, works by the way.”

“Good and thanks for your help. And to you, too, Eustace; should be a fun story, ‘Paper holds recipe for catching the c(r)ook.”

“Don’t give up your day job, Tillinghast.”

(Back to the present at division headquarters)

“So you won third prize and you weren’t suspicious?”

“A bit of a surprise, granted, but not totally unexpected; that recipe’s been in the family for generations.”

“But you didn’t pick up the cheque.”

“Just in case you somehow were aware of the contest and put two and two together, that would be too easy for you.”

“Well done. And then you had your ‘courier’ mail you the cheque.”

“Yes, I thought, again, if you were on to me, it would be too easy for you to follow the courier to my place.”“Well done again. But you didn’t realize that we could, once the cheque was deposited and cleared back to the paper, trace the account where it was deposited.”

“I was tempted not to cash it, just for that reason, but maybe you weren’t on to me and the $50 prize was always planned to pay for the courier. By the way, that was a nice touch, having the bank call me in because they had credited my account with $500 and needed my signature on the correction.“

“Had you thought of signing the cheque over to the courier and letting him take the fall?”

“That would have been interesting, and not that nice, but it would just have delayed the inevitable. So, what are you going to do with me?”

“Wish you well.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, once we found out who you were, it would be hard for you to continue with the fun wouldn’t it?”

“True. Anything else?”

“You might want to give the bank back its $200 and Ms. Lin and Ms. Laliberté some roses. And maybe a potted plant to the mayor’s neighbour.”

“Yes, I can handle that. And to thank you, because you and the force have been such good sports about all this, what do you think of this note I plan to send to the Times?”

Dear Eustace Panama:

I’m the one who has been infuriating the police and giving you good copy these last few months. But now it’s over. You’ll be surprised to hear, but also pleased, I’m sure, that Rupert Tillinghast got the better of me. The police, to their credit, have written off my shenanigans on my promise to take the straight and narrow path from now on.

Whether you acknowledge this or not in your paper, it’s of no mind to me but that’s something that you and Rupert might want to thrash out over a beer.

No, I won’t give you my name; I’ll leave that up to you to discuss with the police.

“Thank you, very nice. Just curious, what is your name? Not Rebus!”

(Laughing) “No, that would be too much, it’s Rhys. Rhys Trahern, welsh ancestry through and through.”

“So you actually do have a first name starting with R and a last name starting with T?”

“Yes, and since my friends were never sure how to pronounce my name, they’ve always called me Arty.”