Wickedness. Profligate past times. Randy ronyons of the worst type.  If there is any of this around me I am not aware or at least not invited. The resort we are staying is having a turning of the guard today as the weekend holiday guests are packing up to flyaway home to make room for the next set of savants.

The cold and damp weekend curtailed any outdoor escapades. As mentioned if there were any indoor sports I didn’t get my ticket.  It was all for the best for Urs Truly was a bit temulant yesterday and in no shape to do so. Yesterday Larry made lovely cosmos. I signed my own death warrant drinking such before noon and sure enough I was cold as a mackerel by nine. Oh the embarrassment.

Last night while everyone else was no doubt calling out for food and the men who deliver such things, I was calling for a plumber. The loo backed up. Our fabulous resort room is chock-full of amenities but has no plunger.  I wondered the premises in search of help. The hot tub was full of fellows discussing philosophy or something. They saw my vexation and asked what was the matter. I explained my predicament. They advised in chorus for me to “Call 69”. This was a puzzlement; such calls in Palm Springs normally don’t produce plumbing products*. Sure enough: the after-hour emergency instructions said to dial 69. I sheepishly picked up the phone and did just that. I immediately got a nice sounding man who didn’t first ask for my credit card number but inquired into my problem. I explained the situation; I needed to get plunged, real bad. The man seemed puzzled by this request as if he had never heard of such or this was not the type of emergency he was prepared to hear. He instructed me to go back to my room, leave the door open, and he would be there right away.  Normally such instructions elicit palpitations of anticipation but not this time. I worried some other fellow would see the open door as an invitation to enter for a game of Uno. How does one explain to said gentleman-caller I am waiting for the plumber or somebody like him and he can’t come in?  These sort of etiquette problem was generally skipped over in the Emily Post books. Happily this awkward what-if did not materialize. The man showed up with a large plunger, the type I wanted at the moment. He came in and we plunged and plunged (he gave; I received) and hey presto! we were done quick as a quarter-note! He was soon out the door and on to his next job. It was over so fast but I was satisfied.

This morning I realized my hero had left his tool behind, either from worry I may need it again or in his euphoria he had forgotten it. Since I didn’t catch his name I am not sure how to return it. I suppose I could go around the resort and knock on doors and ask were you the man who plunged me last night? Or perhaps not. I hope not I don’t have to call 69 any time soon.  At least not for this reason.

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*Well, not the type I was interested in having at the moment.

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