It's Not False Repressed Memory

I'm loving the sprawling saga of The House of the Spirits. I really don't think I've read it before, but the appearance of the giant dog at Clara's wedding seemed awfully familiar, as did his reappearance in her post-honeymoon bedroom. Perhaps I started it before and just don't remember?

In any case, as is true with the remainder of my holiday, I've got no real clue what's going to happen next, but I look forward to the next bit of humor, the next surprise, and the next ghost that floats into my world.

I walked up to a couple guys the other night and said, "I'm sure I know you."

"I don't think so," said the handsome man, eyeing his boyfriend with a "step away from the stalking American" look on his face.

I was persistent, and it turned out that they were from Glasgow, and we played pool together at their local pub on the Sunday before I headed to Inverness last March.

See, I'm not crazy.