Me and George

I got home from New York last week and threw myself at George.

He threw me back.

He wasn't ready to talk, even though I'd found him a fantastic brownstone to live in, a good office at Columbia University to work at, and a plot that would get him Sophy in the end.

He was busy, he said. He had experiments to work on. He had things to think about. He couldn't talk to me now.

So I threw him under a truck.

That'll teach him.

Now he's in the hospital recovering. And when he opens his eyes he's going to find himself staring into Sophy's big brown ones.

We might have a book here, folks. I'll see what George thinks tomorrow when I turn up at the computer and open his file.

At least now he knows I mean business.

ps: I'm putting together my Hugh and Dan contest -- which I would have had up by now, but battles with George, and piles of laundry and suchlike have kept me from sending the stuff to Heather my webmistress.

But you know what next Monday is, don't you? Whose birthday it is?

Send me an answer to that question, and I'll put you in my contest before it even starts.