This is an update to the tale told in my earlier post London in the Plague Year wherein my husband Mel’s pocket knife was confiscated at The Shard. The knife was destined to be turned over to the Metropolitan Police who, we were assured, would mail it back in ten days. Mel had little hope of ever seeing it again. But today, 34 days later, a package arrived from London containing the dastardly weapon shown above. It was swaddled in such thick layers of heavily taped packing material that Mel really needed a knife to cut through it, but of course had to make do with a rather ineffectual pair of scissors. We were impressed that the police sprang for Priority and Registered delivery. The original Weapon Confiscation Form was enclosed. Check out the interesting spelling they came up with for Mel’s place of birth. All’s well that ends well.
When I was very small my Uncle Lievin saved me from a bear. I was in bed at my grandmother’s house in Belgium when he came running up the stairs chased by a bear. Don’t worry, he assured me, I’ll get it. He grabbed a rifle from behind the door and stood on guard in the doorway poking at the bear as it tried to get past him to eat me up. At last, with many dramatic grunts and shouts, he drove it down the stairs and out the door. Now you’re safe, he assured me with a hug, the bear is gone. My uncle was my protector and my hero. How brave he was!
How would you pronounce the name of Poulsbo, a tiny town on the Kitsap Peninsula in Washington State? This is a trick question, because unless you live there or you know someone who does, you are certain to get it wrong. That’s because Poulsbo may be the only town in the United States, or perhaps the world, that ended up with the wrong name. All 
