Lo these many years ago, when I lived in London, it was the time of the IRA bombers. We lived in a one bedroom flat on the third floor of a row house off the Finchley Road (that’s how you say it, “off the whatever road”). It was around Christmas time, and I was putting together a Christmas package to send home. We had no money and those at home had lots of money, so this was a rather feeble piece of work on my part, but I was sincere about it. We smoked at the time, and I collected the coupons from Players No.6. The cigarettes, which I bought in a pack of ten, were the cheapest you could ge; the coupons were a further incentive to buy. I had sent away for two gifts from the Players catalog–a pen & pencil set and a lighter, I think, the former for my father and the latter for my mate. Late one evening, just before bed, we heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading to our flat. Then a banging on the door. I opened it to two huge policemen, London Bobbies in full regalia–and there’s nothing like those helmets to make an American girl snort. I will edit the dialogue down–and omit all attempts at dialect, for the gist of their visit was that our landlady (a senile old thing) had seen the two small packages come from Players and, considering that our last name was Patrick, had called Scotland Yard to report that we were the IRA making bombs in our flat.