You know, gray-faced men wearing bowlers, carrying umbrellas and briefcases down to The Tube, riding with stoic faces out to anonymous red brick house... in towns with names like Last Farthing and Clinched Buttock, all quiet and orderly and pleasant. So sorry, Mr Yeats. Things fell apart. The center did not hold. When I first arrived in London and turned into the marina, I saw a Hooters and instinctively ducked. Fortunately, however, I was assigned a space well away from that august. And I knew she wouldn't call me, either. Well, she had never called me. Probably didn't even know my telephone number, which is unlisted.But if she did know the number, I was pretty certain she wouldn't be calling it, anyway.The question was, the next time I called her number, would she talk to me? I mean, had I really done anything so reprehensible? Or was Shirley simply reacting to the fact that I knew too much about her previous life?Maybe it wasn't so much that I knew about it, as it was. More

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