A Pick-Me-Up From Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Yesterday we awoke to our water closet ceiling steadily dripping from above.

For crying out loud...

We set up 133 various pots, pans and dixie cups to catch the water emanating from our rotten upstairs neighbors apartment. We hate them. Every weekend they hold wrestling matches until seven in the AM. You can practically hear them hitting someone with a folding chair. I don't know what they did, but our ceiling is about to fall through. It feels like we're living in Tyler Durden's house in "Fight Club." Helena Bonham Carter just walked by my bedroom door.

Our water was shut off until the Super could figure out what to do. I had to hike to a Starbucks -- which I hate to go into but had no choice -- to have, uh, a moment, if you're picking up what I'm putting down.

Later in the day, the water was turned back on. I was back in the loo to take a tinkle. I shut the door behind me. The theory is that with all the moisture and water dripping from all angles, the door frame swelled. So, as you can imagine, I couldn't open the door. She was stuck. I was trapped. I tugged and tugged. Pulled and pulled. Cursed and cursed. She wouldn't budge.

Despite all my rage, and still feeling like a rat in a cage, I was incarcerated. A half hour had gone by and I was started to feel a little panic. Not a lot, but enough to fell stressed. I started to fantasize about being in an actual jail cell. How would I decorate my cell? What would be my exercise regimen? How would I avoid "The Sisters" in the prison laundry?

Our dog Penny was howling and whining on the other side of the door. She knew something was wrong. I sat on the edge of the tub -- strategically in between drips -- to regroup. Okay, time to escape from Alcatraz. A Herculean jerk finally opened the swollen door. In the process I practically ripped the frame out of the wall. The frame is about an inch-and-a-half to the right of where it should be. At least I was free.

Still upset, I was trying to calm down. My column was done and already posted, that was good. I stumbled across a video on the YouTube that did make me feel better. A rare interview with one of Scotland's favorite sons and one of my heroes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The great man, dressed to the nines and looking as dapper than ever, sits in the garden and casually discusses Sherlock Holmes and Watson.

Sir Arthur's insights and a bag of Wild Berry Skittles, did soothe my anger and frustration.

I'm fine now.



Thank you Mr. Doyle. I'll read more of your books now to express my gratitude more fully.