But more to the point. This had happened before. The Gallery security knew what would happen if they roistered this teens from the mall. Did they not notify the police that this was going on? If not, why not? If so, why were the police so woefully unprepared to deal with this again?

And now, the police say they are looking into ways to prevent it from happening again. Really? Still looking into it? Do we have to wait until someone is killed (because we know from the experience of the Starbucks manager murdered by a small group of teens that a punch can kill) before the police take this seriously enough to actually prepare to defend against it?

They are considering monitoring social networking sites. Really? After the previous Gallery exodus attacks and the South and Broad miniriot organized on Twitter, they are still just considering?

And by the way, I’m more in favor of keeping these miscreants IN school, perhaps until dinner time, rather than leaving them out so they can roam unsupervised all day. The Starbucks attackers were truants. We really don’t need more bored kids using innocent shoppers and commuters as funtime targets.

I tried to log in to Facebook, but whoever had hijacked my account had changed my password and email address. I have no way to change my password or access my account. So I reported the incident to Facebook via one of their security forms. I received an email from them to confirm my email address for the account. And since then, nothing. Not a word, not an email, not a phone call. I still can’t access my account and I fear now that I never will be able to. Because if the hijacker changed the email associated with the account, who looks like they don’t belong here? Me.

While I’m out here, without access, my friends are vulnerable not only to repeated bogus communications from me, but to being scoped out to be victims themselves.

If you use Facebook, go now and change to an extremely hard password–no words, series of 10 or more numbers and letters that are apparently random. And be sure you keep your status up to date. Fortunately, most of my friends were able to see that I’d had no intention of traveling, or knew that if I were in trouble in London, I have a friend just an hour away who’d take care of me.

I’m worried I’ll never get back in. And that I’ll lose touch, in particular, with old friends I’d lost and found, but never bothered to move to my email address book. Facebook is a nice tool, until someone else decides to use it for gain, then the folks at Facebook apparently have no real impetus to correct the issue and you’ll be stuck, like I am.

The first time was a few weeks ago on a bus. I’d had lunch with a friend, then got on SEPTA route 17 to go to the Reading Terminal Market to pick up some organic veggies from a local farmer. Some guy was definitely standing too close (even though it was a crowded bus). And when I got to the market, my change purse, in which I carried my cash, was missing. At first I thought I must have left it at the restaurant, and went back. But after discovering it wasn’t there, I realized the guy on the bus wasn’t just a close stander, he was a bad guy who now had my cute little red Hello Kitty change purse and the $65 inside.

I know I’m a bit crazy, but I was more upset about the change purse than the money. I’d bought her (it’s always been a her, not an it) at the Camden Market in London the day I arrived for my first visit with my friend Craig and his family. I was very sad to lose her. I have since replaced her with a pink version of the same change purse found serendipitously on e-bay for $12. But still, it will never be little British Hello Kitty.

Today I was apparently the victim of the world’s most inept identity thief. When I logged in this morning to check my email, there’s a confirmation of my minicam order from this morning. Sometime while I was still asleep, dreaming of taste-testing wedding cake (no, I don’t know why, either) someone ordered a camcorder from Target.com. They ordered it with my ATM card, and they set it up to deliver to me. Yes, to me at my home address. Which means I was tipped off by an email AND the camcorder will come to me, and I can return it. Except cause me inconvenience what is the point of this particular crime?

Inconvenient it is, of course. I had to call Target and be told the order couldn’t be cancelled even though the item had not shipped (stupid!). I had to call my bank and cancel my card (easy schmeazy and the guy at PNC couldn’t have been nicer or more competent). Fortunately, I had picked up cash Friday before I left the office, so I’m not spending the weekend cash free. And finally, I got to talk to a nice police officer who is as mystified as I am that the perpetrator shipped the goods to me.

The only thing that seems remotely possible other than stupidity is that the perp is planning to gaslight me. Did I order a camcorder in my sleep? Well, perhaps if I’d ordered a nice Finnish hockey player in my sleep there’d be a possibility. But I have absolutely no conscious or subconscious need for a camcorder.

The ad features a downpour of shoes. What could possibly be upsetting about that?

After 9/11, a friend of mine went with his friend to the friend’s company, a paper supplier that had offices across from the World Trade Center. The paper guy had been given the opportunity to go to his offices for just a few hours to remove company records. My friend went with him.

When they got into the offices, the windows were all broken out, and the offices were covered in the fine gray dust we all remember from the collapse of the towers. And in the dust, on the windowsills and on the desks, and on the floor were shoes. Dust and shoes were all that was left of the towers.

So I suppose that now, every time I see a Chevy Traverse, I’ll think of the shoes in the paper company office. All that was left of the victims of 9/11. Probably not what Chevy was going for.

Well, she does, and it does.

So, join her (and me) by going to Donor’s Choose and help Sars justify a trip to the White House, as a tomato.

I am not at all good at flying on a redeye. I’m better on a long trip if I can sit and read. And, unfortunately, overnight flights have such low light that I can’t, even with a reading light, tolerate reading for any length of time. But this time I was determined.

I flew British Air (using my economic stimulus check–I don’t think W expected that money to go to a U.K. company), so the service was still competent and friendly, there were no ridiculous fees, and the food was decent.

I chose a seat in front of the exit row on the aisle. This meant no child sitting behind me kicking the seat and the ability to fully recline (whatever that means in coach) without inconveniencing anyone behind me. Fortunately, the cabin is kept rather cool, which is my preferred sleep temperature and this trip I slept a grand 3 of the 7 1/2 hours. An excellent ratio, historically.

Sadly, my movie choice, Pride and Prejudice, had sound balance problems, so I could hear the music and not the dialogue most of the time. But I have read P&P about a gazillion times, so I could often guess what they were saying. I also could tell, and the climactic dramatic moment, that Elizabeth Bennett did not say, “I’m wild to be home!” Bad choice screenplay writer! That’s the best line in the book. (Well, maybe, “In vain have I struggled.”)

Then it was time to try sleeping. As I started to get frustrated I just thought about how I’d see my friend C in the morning whether I slept or not, which calmed me down. Then I thought of falling asleep in my bed. I just lie there, think quiet thoughts about how much I love to sleep, and soon I drift away. It worked! Even in the uncomfy confines of the cabin. Still, I would like to have the little first class bed sometime.

I woke just before the lights came up for breakfast. May I just say that as good as the rest of the food was (for airline food) British Air could find a different supplier in the United States for the baked goods. Both the roll at dinner and the croissant at breakfast were inedible.

It’s always disconcerting to me when I get off a plane at Heathrow (or in Paris or Toronto) and find myself coming down steps to a bus. I can’t remember ever having that happen to me in the United States except on a commuter flight. But I was certainly glad I wasn’t one of those people who tries to travel solely with what they can cram into their carryon. Because those people had a lot of wrestling with little rolly bags to do to get down those steps in the cold drizzle. By then, though, I was just really excited I’d be seeing my little buddy for the first time since last October.

So through immigration (should I have said “vacation” instead of “holiday”? Would the officer have been less suspicious if I had?), retrieving my luggage, and customs (with my undeclared apple–I promise I didn’t bring in any fruit flies! Sorry U.K.) and down to the little bullpen with all the anxious/happy/bored faces of the families/friends/limo drivers waiting for passengers. There was my friend C, all shiny in a business suit (my first clue that his “working at home Thursday” plan had changed). Big hugs, a few tears (I’m a softie!) and off to the new Volvo (never got to ride in the much-despised Jaguar).

As he paid to park I mentioned I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him in a suit, but it was a nice suit. The gentleman next to us smiled and said, “Yes, it’s a very nice suit. Where did you get it?” Should I have been surprised when C said, “Hong Kong”? No way you could buy a suit to fit his stocky New Zealand frame off the rack.

It became a typical C experience almost immediately. We got into the lift and he said, “I can’t remember where I parked the car.” How am I not surprised? He was, of course, on the phone when he left the garage. So we went up to level 3, then 2, then 1, then back to 3 and THERE it was. Then there was the hunt for the exit and finally off onto the A-whatever.

We passed Windsor Castle, seeing the round tower as we went by. Then C suddenly said, “yellow car.” What? Yellow car? Turns out the family game of yellow car is an addictive pastime that we’ll revisit in the Bath edition of our little travelogue.

But soon enough we arrived in lovely Wash Commons, Newbury, Berkshire. Where soon, our tale will continue.

Sit down to go. For heaven’s sake, unless you have open sores on your ass, you don’t need to hover over the seat. The only thing that accomplishes is that you pee all over the seat, thereby making it what it wasn’t. Sit down, pee, wipe, get up.

If you really think it’s necessary to drape the seat with either a provided seat cover or with toilet paper, be sure the paper ends up in the toilet and gets flushed away. Don’t leave your scrappy paper all over the floor. I have a friend who once cleaned the ladies rooms at a golf club. He said they were disgusting because of all the paper left lying around. Don’t be one of those ladies.

FLUSH THE TOILET!!! Whether you do one or two, just flush it. You’re going to wash your hands anyway, right? (You’d better be going to wash your hands.) So flush the toilet.

DO NOT! (I repeat do not!) use toilet water to wipe the seat after you. That’s much more disgusting than anything your little heinie will leave on the seat for the woman who follows you. GROSS!

Wash your hands with soap. That is not only for your own hygiene, but for the health and welfare of all who come contact with you and everything your hands come in contact with.

If you use a paper towel to dry your hands, be sure it ends up in a trash receptical. Don’t put it in or on the sink. Don’t let it land on the floor. Put it in the trash.

Yeah, I know this makes perfect sense to most of you, but that minority that pees on the seats, leaves trash on the floor, and walks around with unwashed hands all day are making life a little more trying for all of us.

Instead, he holds a press conference later in the day to explain that he had an emotional (although apparently not physical) affair with Lane, cut the ties when his wife found out, and Lane retaliated, which led to his invasion of her privacy. So instead of being kryptonite in large markets for a while, but eventually employable, he (who has already accused one former employer of age discrimination, if I recall correctly) comes off as a complete loose cannon who’s unemployable. And I’d think his wife wouldn’t be too thrilled with him either.

Can this career or marriage be saved. Stay tuned for the carnage.

Now, Silky is not a name with which to grow old gracefully–a 50-year-old Silky is as silly sounding as a 50-year-old Buffy. But also, Silky is not a name that works at work. Not that I think I should need a nickname at work. Deborah is a perfectly lovely name. Strong. Regal. Deserving respect. And not at all hard to remember or spell or pronounce. And yet, at work (and plenty of other places) it seems men (more than women) are unable to manage a full three-syllable name. They have to shorten names. They cannot wrap their little brains or their extremely short attention spans or their lazy, lazy lips around three syllables when addressing another adult.

So for close to 20 years I’ve been known as Bo. An ex boyfriend’s brother, noting my interest in and ability to talk about just about any sport he could think of started calling me Bo because Bo knows. And I did know. So it fit. I made the mistake, or perhaps it was a good decision, to use “Bo knows” as my name on my football pool at work (we each had a pool name). But the guys at work, who knew I was Deborah, never Debbie or Deb, started calling me Bo.

Now, I like Bo well enough. It’s pleasant. Has a nice ring to it. Reflects something about me that is a good story to tell. And it stands out (which, if you were a Debbie in the 60s surely was not the case), but my name is Deborah. Most of my close friends call me Deborah. For the most part, colleagues who respect me call me Deborah. I am always introduced as Deborah. So why do people at work who aren’t in my work group think it’s okay to call me Deb? Why do they email “Debbie?” Who the hell is she? And does she really have to answer them?

Of course, there’s more to this than just preference, although I didn’t realize it until I was in therapy a few years ago. I was an abused child–sexually and emotionally. The people who abused me called me Deb or Debbie. If someone calls me Deb, my stomach turns. I know that when someone calls me Debbie I get an “if looks could kill” look on my face, but I can’t help it.

What’s the point? I guess my point is this. If somone introduces themselves to you by a particular name, use that name unless they later say they have a nickname and invite you to use it. If someone is introduced to you as Deborah and your next words are “nice to meet you Debbie” you have just been insufferably rude.  The person has the right to choose what she will be called (within reason–I’m not calling a girl “bitch” no matter what she asks).

I think maybe the old timers in the 19th century had it right. They would never make free with the name of another. I’d have been Miss Deborah through my youth and Miss Sullivan since my sisters both married. And I’d have been a whole lot less cranky.

But now, I’m back on line, and through a rather convoluted series of events (searching for something to watch on television, finding “The Real Estate Pros” and the main man Richard helping out a couple of years ago in the rehabilitation of a guy named Josh Hamilton who just happens to have won the Home Run Contest at last week’s All Star Game, looking to see if I could find anything about the relationship on the net) I found this really fun site: It’s Lovely! I’ll Take It!

I love looking at property on line (mostly focusing on cute little mews houses in London). But I must admit I’ve never seen anything quite so amusing on real estate sites as these dreadful examples of the way the marketing challenged have of presenting their houses. It’s no wonder homes are losing value out there people!