Wilbur's Teeth

I finally got the tickets for the mystery journey coming up in August.

A lovely woman called from several time zones away (it was 6am my time), and asked for an email address where she could sent the tickets. Groggy, but pleased (because I haven’t actually received an official confirmation that I was going), I told her my email address. She said to just look it over and call her back if anything needed changing.

Ten minutes later, I call her back. Oh, well, the itinerary has my last name as my middle and my middle as last. No worries, she’ll send the corrected itinerary to me in a jiff.

Ten minutes later I call her back. Well, as much as I would love an opportunity to tour the fair city where you work many time zones away, I would prefer that the plane drop me off somewhere closer to, say, where I live. That would be nice.
OH! I’m so sorry, that was my fault.

Yes. Yes it was.

I’ve mentioned before that the lead up to this trip has been covered with the marks of… well, something less than efficiency. Now, far be it from me to be ungrateful, but the only way you can tell if the horse is worth taking home is if you check out the teeth, even if it is a gift.