And yes, I'm happy to see you.

The other day, I discovered a banana in my pocket. To be more precise, it had been in the pocket of my leather coat; like a stowaway in an airliner wheelwell, it had come to a bad end, having been squished at some point during my journey from New York to Baltimore. I didn't remember exactly how it got there; does it matter?

Once, while waiting at the Baltimore airport for my sister to arrive (and trying in vain to catch a glimpse of anyone from Airline), I nonchalantly pulled a sandwich out of my pocket. David was slightly aghast. What was I doing with a sandwich in my pocket? Where did I get it? How long had it been there? I thought the answers were all obvious: it was there Just In Case; from Subway (it had been part of a foot-long Subway club); and, does it matter?

No sooner had my sister arrived than she mentioned that during her flight, she had pulled a sandwich out of her pocket. I felt justified somehow; it had been conclusively demonstrated that having a sandwich in my pocket was a genetic tendency over which I was powerless.

Of course now, before I sit down on my coat, I check my pockets.