My mousepad crapped out. Maurice the Mouse, or whomever, obviously not holding up his end. Hey, this is a small apartment, I thought I placed you in charge of ALL mice! So I found it difficult to pay my bills online, and walked to the blue box to mail one. I stopped at the reportedly decent Italian Restaurant on the corner -- I had seen the logs outside, but figured they were for wood oven, not fireplace -- I was right. On the return trip, I stopped by the nails place downstairs, and picked up a menu. It is actually a spa for hands and feet, kind of like a facial for hands and feet. I return to the apartment. "Spirit of the Beehive" I say. "Sounds like something you'd write." "Yes." "hands and feet are wrapped like a beehive..."