Cool, I will pop in tomorrow morning. I didn't want to fast and then show up and have to wait, all grumpy and hungry. Seems like they could put that info on the recorded message if they aren't going to call people back.

It gets worse. They have new anti-terror doors, but they have a side entrance that lets tourists in to get to the cafe. The side entrance and main terror doors go to the same area, as the cafe is next to the lifts. So, if you want to get into the building and have a bomb? Turn up and say you're a tourist. You're in.

That's so classic. "What? I said terrorist -- it's on them if they heard tourist!"

I think the bomb policy sounds very British. Neither Britain nor the US have a lock down on office stupid--that just sounds the way Brits would have at it.

I'm reading the article about Halloween episodes, and it's really thoughtfully written. Perhaps more thoughtfully than my painkilled brain can do justice.

You should win something for being the last member of the team, Jilli. Something other than all the work the team does, I mean.

I like the term "terror doors."

I should get a "terror desk," which I will hide under if the situation warrants.

And a new bomb alarm procedure. If somebody phones or mails in a bomb threat, the alarm is sounded and we have to;

Remain in the building - Look for the bomb. Including - Bins - Cupboards - Raise the alarm if we find it

I'd be willing to keep an eye out for suspicious objects on my way out of the building, but that's about it.

Timelies all!

I guess I'm dusting off my vampire bat earings tomorrow...

I was supposed to go to a "dress as your favorite dead person" party this weekend, and my big plan was not to dress up, and just name someone at random if anyone asked who I was supposed to be.

Wear a really long scarf and go as Isadora Duncan:

A habitual wearer of flowing scarves which trailed behind her, Duncan's fashion preferences were the cause of her death in a freak automobile accident in Nice, France, on the night of September 14, 1927 at the age of 50. The accident gave rise to Gertrude Stein's mordant remark that "affectations can be dangerous."

Duncan was a passenger in the Amilcar automobile of a handsome young Italian mechanic, Benoît Falchetto, whom she had ironically nicknamed 'Buggatti' [sic]... Before getting into the car, she said to a friend, Mary Desti, and some companions, "Adieu, mes amis. Je vais à la gloire!" ("Goodbye, my friends, I am off to glory!") However, according to the diaries of the American novelist Glenway Wescott, who was in Nice at the time and visited Duncan's body in the morgue (his diaries are in the collection of the Beineke Library at Yale University), Desti admitted that she had lied about Duncan's last words. Instead, she told Wescott, the dancer actually said, "Je vais à l'amour" ("I am off to love"), which Desti considered too embarrassing to go down in history as the legend's final utterance, especially since it suggested that Duncan hoped that she and Falchetto were going to her hotel for a sexual assignation. Whatever her actual last words, when Falchetto drove off, Duncan's immense handpainted silk scarf, which was a gift from Desti and was large enough to be wrapped around her body and neck and flutter out of the car, became entangled around one of the vehicle's open-spoked wheels and rear axle. Duncan died on the scene.

As The New York Times noted in its obituary of the dancer on 15 September 1927, "The automobile was going at full speed when the scarf of strong silk began winding around the wheel and with terrific force dragged Miss Duncan, around whom it was securely wrapped, bodily over the side of the car, precipitating her with violence against the cobblestone street. She was dragged for several yards before the chauffeur halted, attracted by her cries in the street. Medical aid was summoned, but it was stated that she had been strangled and killed instantly."[4]

Oh! There's a country band at the office playing "Red River Valley"!