One's pattern

In the last week or two I've
been repairing lacunae in my
table settings, the kind of
thing a bachelor is natural-
ly the last to notice, until
he can't have friends in to
dinner anymore. It turns out
that one's pattern is still
in production, if not in vo-
gue, and this has kept me on
the line with a French firm's
representative in New York.

What's made this risky busi-

ness these days is our next

régime's penchant of hacking

communications to expose the

people of sanity in our na-

tion. It was bad enough, to

be dealing with France for

fish knives, and spoons for

vichyssoise. But what surely

cost me my rating at their

club must have been my reli-

ance upon the good advice of

a female, much less of Arab

descent, and less still of

Muslim heritage. 

She was unfailingly helpful 

in reminding me of requis-

ites of service of my tastes 

to my friends, and posed in

this way some threat to the 

foundations of our security.

But they've said the same

thing of wives and sisters

of everyone who's listened,

and now demand a Department

of Justice committed to in-

fantile insult as policy.

Every gesture we care about,

is an exertion of affection. 

For aiding mine, I thank her.