The Happy birthday Chris and happy Cinco de Mayo everyone.

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The trouble with the war, Malay Cushman thought, as she stared sulkily through steaming French windows into her rain-renched garden, was that it was so frightfully boring. There weren't any

men anymore. Interesting ones that is. Or parties or little pink cocktails or cafe royal or long-stemmed roses wrapped in crackly green wax paper.

There wasn't even a decent hairdresser left.

She had been a fool. There wasn't even a decent hairdresser left.

She had been a fool to stay on, but it had seemed so exciting.

Everyone listening to the radio broadcasts, the streets blossoming with uniforms, an air of feverish

gaiety, Hetti is a mosel wine over all the city, the conversations that made one

feel so important, so in the thick of things.

Would the Madgenow line hold? Would the British come?

Would the low countries be invaded? Was it true America had issued an ultimatum?

Subjects that now were outdated as gatling guns.

It had been terrifically stimulating being asked for her opinion as an American.

Of course she hadn't been home for a number of years and considered herself a true cosmopolitan

freed from the provincialities of her own country, but still it had been nice in those first

flurried jack-in-the-box days of the war to be able to discourse so

intelligently on Americana. It had been such fun. Momentarily, Millie's eyes sparkled, remembering.

The sparkle faded and died.

Well, our Sparkle hasn't faded and died.

Get ready to be stimulated folks because we're two Americans with opinions.

And we're going to give them to you here on the H.P.

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