There's somebody calling me. Or calling my office, anyway. Most every morning, and often right after lunch, I get back to see the IP telephone reporting there's a missed message, sometimes several missed messages. It comes from an Unknown caller, though. There's also an unidentified caller -- I imagine the same person, although by definition I can't prove this -- who will call when I'm in the office too, but when I or the machine picks up simply hangs up a fractional second later. What the purpose of all this is, I can't imagine.
When I first moved in I had the problem of someone calling me repeatedly, looking for somebody I never heard of. After a couple weeks of calling each day and being told that person wasn't there, he finally stopped calling me, or so I assume. I don't remember what number that was. But now you know some of the reason my philosophy towards the phone is that if you answer it every time it rings, it'll never learn to sleep through the night.
My copy of Nothing Like It In The World remains missing, although I ran across a Get Fuzzy book, Say Cheesy, I'd forgotten I had. For the most part this is great, as it let me re-read a lot of rather good jokes without the memory of them getting in the way (``Trust? Hey, you're the one who smells like ham!''), although towards the end of the book is about when Darby Conley got into this rut of having Bucky Katt announce he could totally beat up some animal or other, and then be shown to be quite wrong. On rare occasion that's fine, but he went from a duel with Fungo Squiggly the ferret, to a zoo chimpanzee, to a free-range chicken, and that's just too much in a row.
Trivia: Passengers on the Handley Page Aircraft Company's flights, beginning 1922, between London and Paris were provided with earplugs, lap rugs, and foot muffs. The HP-42 planes were chilly and loud. Source: Naked Airport, Alastair Gordon.
Currently Reading: Yerkes Observatory, 1892-1950: The Birth, Near Death, and Resurrection of a Scientific Research Institution, Donald E Osterbrock.