Had to stay late at the office tonight for a very important business meeting with some very important people who talked about some very important things (Cookie already knows what happens at business meetings: "It's where people talk and talk and talk.")

The man running this particular meeting sat at the end of the table and I paid very close attention to him throughout. Or at least I tried to. Over his shoulder I could see the kitchen area where caterers were preparing the dinner they were about to serve us. Over his head I could see them moving the trays and pans and plates. My mind wandered. Music started to play in my mental background:

"Soup on his head!"

I tried to banish the tune from my mind.

"Soup on his head!"

It was hopeless. I rode home on one of the later trains and was frustrated at how crowded it was. It stopped at every station. Even Melrose. Who the hell lives in Melrose? A wide woman with knitting needles plopped into the seat next to me -- and I mean plopped into it, jolting me against the wall and window. I closed my eyes and hoped the trip would go faster. Woodlawn. Wakefield. Who uses these stations? The wide woman continued to knit. I sang to myself, involuntarily: "Who's that man with the soup on his head? Wha-oh, wha-oh!"

Tomorrow I need to call the principal at Cookie's school to ask him what kind of zoo he's running over there. And to find out whether he ever actually reads his e-mail.