First, Second, and Third House in Montauk were so named, one would think, to commemorate the order in which they were built. This is not so. Nor is Gin Beach called that in connection with Prohibition, as is often assumed. In fact, their origins go back to the early 18th century and have everything to do with cattle and sheep, and nothing to do with construction sequences or illicit liquor.

As far back as 1659, East Hampton Town records indicate that men went to Montauk to prepare land as pasture. Once sheep and cattle and some hogs were driven east, on about May 1, the men would take turns sheltering in rude huts to look after them. My grandmother, Jeannette Rattray, in a 1938 history of Montauk printed by The Star, likened tending cattle to jury duty; every man had to go eventually, and no one escaped.

First, Second, and Third House went up, spaced three miles apart, beginning in 1744, and indeed, they were built in that order. However, my grandmother wrote, they got their names because they were the first, second, and third colonists’ structures the drovers would reach as they herded the livestock to summer pastures.

The native people were there, of course, but by the 18th century they were already becoming constrained by economic exclusion and a series of restrictive laws. Even their storehouses, stone-lined pits in the ground called Indian barns, were ordered filled, lest any cattle, sheep, or horses fall in. 

With the livestock, perhaps as many as 6,000 at their peak, came the need, too, for fences, and East Hampton men put them up, using ponds as partial boundaries where they could. One ran roughly north from Fresh Pond in Hither Hills to the bay and south to the ocean near where the state campground is today. Another reached from Fort Pond to today’s Navy Beach, and another from the pond to the Atlantic, somewhere in the vicinity of the Montauk I.G.A. Gates crossed the Montauk road near each of the three cattle keepers’ houses. 

Gin Beach got its name for the gin, a trap-like corral, into which the cattle were driven at round-up time, before they were run, 500 at a time, into the fatting fields. During my grandmother’s time, some of the old folks here still knew the rough boundaries and where the fences had been.

The pasture season ended around Nov. 1, weather permitting, when the livestock was gathered from the swamps and thickets and herded back west. In the early days, Thanksgiving was observed on the Thursday after the cattle were back. There was too much work to do to celebrate before the animals were back in their barns.

For as long as email has been an everyday occupation, I have been in the habit of trying to rid myself of unwanted electronic communications by labeling incoming junk as “junk,” and vaguely sort of expecting and hoping that my laptop email program would eventually catch my drift and start recognizing and blocking the senders. I thought I was exercising the patience of Job as I waited for the email program to learn to do this. Somehow, the computer never did catch on, but I’ve been doing this for, oh, maybe 20 years now. Don’t laugh.

Some of my misapprehension about how these things work relates to the fact that, oddly enough, I actually was an early adapter of computers in the workplace, and I still apparently have one foot in the distant digital past, when anything seemed possible and none of the commands used were really intuitive. About a million years ago — could it have been the 1980s? — we started using desktop computers here at The Star for what we used to call “word processing,” a term, now that I think of it, that has just about gone into the graveyard of antiquated words like “hose” for stockings or “valise” for suitcase. The program was called XyWrite, and I remember distinctly how I had to convince my colleagues because some thought we would never be able to edit copy without typewriters and grease pencils.

How long ago that now seems; today, computer programs are so much smarter but also exponentially more complicated, and the truth is I have become computer-challenged.

It took a friend, who happens to be an excellent teacher, to set me straight about unwanted emails. Although I hadn’t asked for help, she noticed that I seemed to be crushed under an avalanche of spam and ads and junk newsletters, and explained that the way to avoid recurring them was to “unsubscribe.”

Of course, I had heard about unsubscribing, but never tried it, I guess, because in my admittedly old-fashioned way of thinking you couldn’t unsubscribe from something you hadn’t knowingly subscribed to in the first place, and I couldn’t remember ever having subscribed to an email list for anything, ever. My tutor explained that every time I buy something online, my email address is added to marketing databases and that the same thing occurs every time I sign an online petition.

And, no, she patiently continued, a computer email program does not simply take it upon itself to accumulate a file of junk clicks and use it as a “please block” list. Social media these days may be keeping detailed records of everything we view or “like,” or do, but that doesn’t mean email systems are programmed to read your mind.

Wow! In the week following her advice, I have been unsubscribing with wanton abandon all over the place. Despite the fact that email marketers seem to be in league to make it difficult by hiding the word in teeny, tiny type, I have become an unsubscribe champion. My inbox has never looked so neat.

This morning I found myself wondering if perhaps the computer was keeping track of all my unsubscribing for me, in some sort of handy hidden list that I could unearth and point to as I bragged about my unsubscribing prowess. . . . Oops! There I go again.

My plan was to watch the royal wedding from an ironic distance. I got out of bed at 4 a.m., I left my cowlick-afflicted hair uncombed to create the illusion that I had donned a sort of cut-rate fascinator, I adjusted my Twitter feed to receive the snark aimed at the event, and then I turned on the television. 

Since I was looking to remain unengaged intellectually, I tuned in first to the coverage from the American networks. CBS had a countdown clock to the ceremony, a CNN camera zoomed in on a dog wearing a Union Jack bandanna, and NBC had an expert weigh in on whether Prince Harry would tie the knot bearded or clean-shaven. (Note: The expert was wrong, the prince kept the scruff.)

Having tired of sitting through commercial breaks, I flipped over to the BBC News channel, which, while dedicating most of its screen to the day’s pomp, stuck to its more serious journalistic mission via a news crawl that relayed information about the North Koreans who had defected, the school shooting in Texas, and the plane crash in Cuba.

The BBC high road did offer slightly more captivating views — particularly the chats with people who worked at charities supported by the prince and his bride-to-be, Meghan Markle — but I was still in no danger of being roused from my ennui. 

That is, until a black Mercedes van pulled up in front of St. George’s Chapel and out stepped William and Harry, the brothers I had watched publicly mourn the death of their mother almost 21 years ago. 

There was something about the sweet interplay between the two — the sly smiles, the whispered asides, the gleeful camaraderie — that seemed universal to all siblings who have ever attended a family event in fancy clothes they didn’t want to be wearing. I suddenly found myself projecting a gamut of feelings onto them: grief, triumph, brotherly love, a blistering desire to change into sweatpants.

Once the cameras ventured inside the chapel, I was soon flooded with a surprising sense of patriotism. It seemed as if Ms. Markle, an American actress with a mixed racial heritage, had tossed all staid royal wedding plans aside and let loose with Yankee abandon. A rollicking sermon from Bishop Michael Curry, the first African-American to head up the Episcopal Church in the U.S., likely left many Brits in attendance feeling as if their Sunday services were hopelessly ho-hum. A rousing rendition of “Stand by Me” by a British gospel choir proved that, Pachelbel be damned, American songwriters create the best wedding anthems. The medieval chapel, which was filled with a cross-section of humanity that ranged from a yoga teacher with a pierced nose (the bride’s mom, Doria Ragland) to the Queen of England, had been transformed into a new world melting pot. 

Yes, there was also an abundance of romance. The flowing gown, the carriage rides, and especially the sweet nothings the groom cooed to his bride at the altar: “You look amazing. I’m so lucky.” But the most memorable and touching thing about the ceremony was its aura of inclusiveness, its sense of bridging the divide.

Ultimately, I found myself agreeing with the Twitter scribe who wrote, “it seems that after shootings, plane crashes, natural disasters and threats between nations, the world needed a royal wedding more than it realized.”

Jamie Bufalino is a reporter for The Star.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a psychological need to set the household to rights before doing much of anything else in the morning. First I potter around the bedroom, putting a book left willy-nilly on the bedside table back in its place or picking up socks I tossed about at bedtime. Next comes the kitchen, tidying away spices neglected after dinner or pots and pans scrubbed and left to dry. I think I am a morning potterer because I always pre-emptively imagine what the house will look like should company drop by, even if no one is expected but family.

Birdwatching comes next on my pleasant morning rounds. I’m not an expert, by any means, but no matter: I keep two feeders outside the sun porch windows and an eye on whatever winged creature shows up. Recently, a family member helped me identify a few migrating species as well as the songs of the chickadees and the red-wing blackbirds. I refill the feeder and stand and watch the woodpeckers and blue jays, even before coffee, before brushing my teeth.

These first things I do in the morning aren’t chores but pleasurable rituals, and it’s true in all weather. I can attest that there’s something to be said for taking the time to listen to the wind or to watch snow fall in winter.

On spring mornings like these, however, after the bedroom and the pots and pans and the birds, I habitually check the vases I like to keep filled, eliminating any flowers that no longer look good and rearranging the bouquets.

Four varieties of narcissus came up in the yard this year, and, after they were just about gone, I gathered more wherever I could. The dog, Sweet Pea, and I haven’t had to go very far on our morning walks before we find a few daffodils that call out to be collected.

One day recently Sweet Pea and I were out for a stroll when we casually meandered into a neighbor’s backyard and the neighbor suddenly appeared. “What are you doing?” she called out, sounding annoyed. “Stealing daffodils,” I confessed, although saying so was gilding the lily, so to speak. It was obvious what we were doing. Even Sweet Pea looked shamefaced.

I then mumbled something irrelevant about this being a second-home community and my having thought that if no one was in residence, taking advantage of gorgeous daffodils was fair game. But, of course, someone clearly was in residence. Sorry, neighbor!

Lord knows, we are lucky to live in a place where nature remains bountiful, where it’s almost impossible not to enjoy the arrival of new growth. Even invasive plants can be beautiful, like the wild, wanton spread of lesser celandine that Larry Penny identified for me last week.

 A perfect match for the yard’s dandelions — a bright, buttercup yellow —lesser celandine (or ranunculus ficaria), mixed in with cornflower-blue flowers of several sizes that I don’t know the name of, has for several decades given our front lawn more the appearance of a meadow in May than a suburban lawn. We like the meadow effect, even if it’s not everyone’s taste. The fact that dog-walking neighbors are unlikely to stop by to help themselves to our wildflower weeds is a bonus, I suppose, but if they did they’d be welcome.

In 1867, something called the Department of Education was formed in the United States, establishing the notion that providing children with an education is a universally good idea. But in the century and a half since then, it seems we’ve managed to take the 15 years of children’s lives that should be the most fun, carefree, inquisitive, and experimental and turn them into a period filled with stress and a neurotic sense of failure.

The New York Times ran a devastating story this weekend about a sophomore at Hamilton College who hanged himself because he was flunking three out of four classes and “felt like a failure.” Suicide is the second-leading cause of death, after accidents, among college students in the U.S. Nearly one in three teenagers told the American Psychological Association that stress drove them to sadness or depression. And that their single biggest source of stress was school. The Washington Post reported on Monday that doctors increasingly see children in early elementary school suffering from migraine headaches and ulcers, which many psychologists see as a clear connection to performance pressure.

Even so, parents and schoolteachers continue to feed their kids byzantine notions like “hard work pays off.” And what is the big payoff? Acceptance to an elite institution of higher education — the one achievement upon which a young person’s entire worth seems to hinge. 

Education in the United States has become a mishmash of well-meaning intentions and competing objectives. Add to the mix some ruthless competition, snobbery, fickle judgments, crushed confidence, government meddling, bureaucracy, and social engineering.

Globally, the U.S. ranks fifth in spending per student, but most recently in a math analysis, it placed 26th out of the 34 countries of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, alongside the Slovak Republic, Lithuania, and Hungary. Additionally, only 29 percent of Americans say they believe our education system is above average. 

If you want to see the absolute proof that we’ve got it all wrong, then have a look at how Finland does education. 

In a country of about five million that doesn’t introduce its children to formal schooling until the age of 7, its education system has become a byword for excellence. Students don’t see a standardized test until they’re 16. Finnish teachers are given a great deal of responsibility and are allowed unfettered flexibility in what and how they teach. Performance isn’t observed and graded. Instead, annual development discussions with school leaders provide feedback, and teachers make their own assessments of their strengths and weaknesses. 

Above all, you get a sense of a mature education system, where problems can be anticipated, not merely reacted to. Recently, Finland’s math standards slipped to 12th in the world and educators sent out a directive to schools to “put more joy back in the classroom.” Education in Finland is not seen as a government issue but as a societal one. And none of it is exactly based on rocket science.

But here in America, our multibillion-dollar education business says that it’s acting in the children’s best interests. That all the tweaking they do to standards and testing and college entrance exams will make children happier. 

Forget it. Happiness went out the window in second grade. After that, it’s just one long, grisly “Hunger Games”-like competition where the weak and the kind, the quixotic, the dreamers, the passionately weird, and the late bloomers get left behind at the end of each round. Only the blinkered overachievers, the wunderkinds, and the driven will prevail at the bitter end.

Hillary Clinton once said that it took a village to raise a child. Oh my God. If only. If only all it took was some happy, higgledy-piggledy, picturesque village with smock-wearing aunties to lend a hand. But no sleepy, chicken potpie-baking hamlet is going to help your kid through the angst of high school, the mania of college admissions, and ultimately to that one university that will lead to a life worth living.

Oh no, we need far more than a village. We need au pairs who speak Mandarin and Latin, concert pianist nannies, tutors, counselors, and professional athletes with torn A.C.L.s to teach hand-eye coordination. We must have voice coaches and fencing instructors, essay consultants, and psychiatrists to write a chit for extra time on exams. There have to be summer camps for creative writing, test prepping, and mock interviews. We need vacations, not to sunbathe and unwind, but to build a school in a third world country.

Ezra Pound was on to all of this 80 years ago when he said, “Real education must be limited to [those] who insist on knowing. The rest is mere sheepherding.”

And the worst part is, no one out there is smart enough to figure out how to fix it.

Judy D’Mello is The Star’s education reporter.

Going into Memorial Day weekend, I had an intention to write down all of the amusing things I overheard while out and about, and make a column out of the best of them. Either I wasn’t paying attention or simply went to the wrong places, as by the end of the day on Monday, I had very little material. Well, no, that’s not quite right; I had exactly one quote.

It was therefore a good thing that I happened to take a walk in the Amagansett lanes on Friday evening. These narrow, straight streets run roughly south from Amagansett Main Street. They were where my friends and I did our Halloween trick-or-treating when our ages were still in single digits.

At the time modest ranch houses and four-squares built in the early postwar period dominated. Every place had plenty of lawn, with breathing room between it and its neighbors. Not anymore. With money to be made maxing out every available inch of a house lot, developers and people looking to build and flip are replacing the old ranches and four-squares in batches.

Standing in front of a house under construction on Miankoma Lane, I saw something I had not noticed before, which marks the new style: its side rooflines. Unlike those on earlier houses, today’s roofs appear to point directly at the property lines. That is, if you imagined a line parallel to the plane of the roof, it would hit the ground right where the privet is planted. This is no accident.

In East Hampton, building plans must conform to a so-called pyramid law and not exceed it. This is a line on paper that extends upward at an angle from the property’s margins. Builders seeking the most floor area have the houses extend side to side as far as possible, leaving headroom for decent-height ceilings and pitched roofs. 

The effect is a surprising conformity in the scale and shape of the new houses. I do not care for it, but then again, I am not directly in the business, although pretty much everyone who makes a living on the South Fork’s boat is floated in one way or another by building, real estate, and the related trades.

I walked on, thinking about that one thing I overheard, which I mentioned at the outset, a derisive “They have phones in Monaco!” from a man on a cellphone. He no doubt had come from one of those big new houses.

The meeting room of the East Hampton Presbyterian Church, which is regularly filled by Sunday-school classes and women’s-club suppers, is not exactly where you would expect to go to a Latin jazz concert by a world-class performer. On Saturday night, however, the music, and some tango dancing, took over.

Jane Hastay, the minister of music at the church, who also happens to be a jazz pianist, drew an enthusiastic crowd for a concert that starred Gil Gutierrez, a virtuoso on nylon string guitar with an international following. He was accompanied by Ms. Hastay, at the piano, Peter Martin Weiss (her husband), on bass, and Bob Stern, on amplified violin in keeping with the guitar. 

Mr. Gutierrez is from San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, a place imbued by music. (The Choral Society of the Hamptons’ recent Rossini concert was conducted by John Daly Goodwin, who lived there for many years.)

Long recognized as a star, Mr. Gutierrez has been a soloist with the Minnesota and Florida symphony orchestras and performed at Carnegie Hall and in documentary films. His virtuosity encompasses various styles, including opera, jazz, flamenco, and tango. East Hampton was lucky to have him here.

On Saturday night, his sound brought shouts of joy from the audience when the tunes were spirited and deep sighing when they were quiet or melancholy. 

Over the years, I’ve been quite  tuned in to live and recorded jazz, by professionals as well as friends. But while all jazz encompasses improvised sections and Latin and African influences, what I have listened to over the years has, for the most part, been what could be described as a commonplace North American variety. Many who attended on Saturday were, unlike me, quite familiar with Latin jazz, specifically, and many concertgoers were brought out by OLA, the nonprofit organization that has been an advocate for the eastern Long Island Latino community since 2002 and to which the concert was dedicated.  The concert was a shared activity that engendered a sense of community, and the blend of music and people was heartening.

The Presbyterian Church is only a long stone’s throw from my house, and given my caution about driving at night, I walked over, hoping for a good concert. I had not imagined that I would be delighted by an outstanding concert that was not just a new experience, but a wonderful use of a community church hall that brought disparate members of the community together.

Thank you, Jane and OLA!

As a kid, I spent a lot of time in the country, where no one was afraid of bugs. When I say country, I mean a part of the world with more fields and farms and cows and chickens than summer residents, rather than “country” with quotations around the word, the way the East End is often misidentified. A quilted barn jacket and pair of Wellington boots don’t make you a farmer.

We would hang around outdoors all day and certainly didn’t worry about creatures with four — or more — legs. (My mother and other female adults were frightened of bats, but that is another story.)

I think when I was a kid we would have expected only a city person to get upset by creepy-crawly things, but I’m a lot less blasé about bugs today than I was when I was 8 or 9. No, I don’t mind spiders: The grandchildren like spiders, and in any event they eat flies and mosquitos. But lately the insect invasion seems to have gotten out of hand. Here we are, in the beautiful Hamptons, and we have to be constantly mindful of the presence of ticks. Now, too, we are plagued with a newer arrival . . . oh my heavens, stink bugs! 

Ticks are hideous whether inching along in search of a host or lying about looking nastily full. And, of course, ticks carry serious diseases. It’s no joke. As far as I’m concerned, though, there is nothing good about stink bugs, either. They don’t have to do anything to be hateful. They don’t even have to crawl. 

I find stink bugs so offensive that I turned the pages of a New Yorker magazine article about them as quickly as possible after reading the headline. The New Yorker feature, in its March 12 issue, tells the story of a couple dealing with a massive stink-bug invasion: “Will we ever be able to get rid of them?” they ask, perhaps futilely.

The brown marmorated stink bug (Halyomorpha halys) is an invasive species “that can upset customers and frustrate technicians,” the New Yorker article says. The number of the little stinkers in the house in question had reached 26,000 at the time the magazine went to press. 

Where did these pests come from? They were unknown hereabouts 10 or 15 years ago. Apparently, stink bugs creep inside in the fall looking for warm places to spend the winter. According to the National Pest Management Association’s fall 2017 “Bug Barometer,” they have been flourishing in the Northeast because the region has consistent rainfall and enough warmth. “Invasive species may start off making headlines, but often level off in a few years,” said Mark Sheperdigian, in a column for an interesting journal titled Pest Management Professional.

Such professional assessments don’t help very much if you find a few stink bugs at home and decide you have to squish them, however. I don’t advise that you squish them. It might release the famous bad odor, and it really won’t do anything to reduce their numbers. 

Before I disgust all my readers by writing about other unpleasant pests hereabouts, like silverfish, roaches, and termites, let’s hear it for centipedes and caterpillars. Those are sweet insects. And how about another wonderful member of the arthropod world, the cricket, who chirps so delightfully? And butterflies, and dragonflies!

I’m concerned about the numbers of these pleasant insects. Has anyone seen a grasshopper lately? Where have the grasshoppers gone? It feels like the world and the ecosystem are out of whack, when ticks and stink bugs are omnipresent, but you rarely see a monarch butterfly.

Sociopaths and narcissists frequently use gaslighting tactics, a form of manipulation aimed at sowing doubt in an individual or in members of a group to make them question their own memory, perception, and sanity. 

I know this to be true, because I read it on the internet.

Sociopaths, Wikipedia continues, transgress social mores, break laws, and exploit others, but typically also are convincing liars who consistently deny wrongdoing.

I’ll return to this notion, but first will acknowledge a small measure of satisfaction that Alex Jones, a contemptible huckster and apparent confidant of the president of the United States who trumpets conspiracy theories to an audience of profoundly confused Americans, is the subject of three lawsuits. The Times reported last week that Mr. Jones, who has asserted that the 2012 mass shooting in which 20 first graders and six adults were murdered was a hoax, staged by the government as a pretext to confiscate firearms, has been targeted by families of those slaughtered on that December day in Newtown, Conn. 

Naturally, the self-styled courageous crusader, now that he is in the crosshairs, so to speak, equivocates. After lawsuits were filed last month, according to The Times, he claimed that he “very quickly . . . began to believe that the massacre happened,” this despite “the fact [sic] that the public doubted it.” 

The article, “Truth in a Post-Truth Era: Sandy Hook Families Sue Alex Jones, Conspiracy Theorist,” details the regular harassment and threats, including of murder, to the families of the slain children, thanks in no small part to the bloviating Mr. Jones. What a vast understatement to say that for the devastated families, he has added grievous insult to injury. 

I would remind this wearisome loudmouth that karma is the cosmic cash register, seeing to it that no debt goes unpaid. May that debit be extracted sooner rather than later, a la “Instant Karma!” by John Lennon, who was most definitely shot dead in 1980 by a profoundly confused American of an earlier era. 

Mr. Trump has certainly done his part to inject ambiguity and disorientation, appearing on Mr. Jones’s radio show during his campaign for the presidency, The Times notes. The president has called the news media the “enemy of the American people,” a phrase for which Mr. Jones claimed credit, and parroted the charlatan’s bogus assertion that millions of undocumented immigrants voted for his opponent, Hillary Clinton, who, in the world of objective reality, won the popular vote by almost three million. 

Last week, the television journalist Lesley Stahl detailed a 2016 postelection conversation in which the president-elect told her that he continually bashes the press “to discredit you all and demean you all so that when you write negative stories about me no one will believe you.” 

On Saturday, the president complained, via Twitter, that “The Failing @nytimes quotes ‘a senior White House official,’ who doesn’t exist. . . .” Of course, his claim that The Times was lying was easily proven to be itself a lie, just one of thousands he has told over these last 16 months. Earlier this month, apparently citing that fortress of fairness and balance — “Fox & Friends” — Mr. Trump, a man who for years peddled the lie that President Barack Obama had been born in Kenya, tweeted that “91% of the Network News about me is negative (Fake).” It was, I think, his most illuminating utterance of all. 

“Now that he is president,” Julie Hirschfeld Davis and Maggie Haberman wrote in The Times this week, “Mr. Trump’s baseless stories of secret plots by powerful interests appear to be having a distinct effect.” The president of the United States “is eroding public trust in institutions, undermining the idea of objective truth, and sowing widespread suspicions about the government and news media that mirror his own.” 

It bears repeating: Sociopaths and narcissists frequently use gaslighting tactics, a form of manipulation aimed at sowing doubt in an individual or in members of a group to make them question their own memory, perception, and sanity. 

I know this to be true. 

Christopher Walsh is a senior writer for The Failing @EHStar.

My analogy may be a little off, but I think the way into the Art Barge on the Napeague stretch resembles a pound trap, a long track through wetlands leading to the cod end, from which there is no escape. 

It becomes nothing less than Mephistophelian from a driver’s point of view when there is, as there was on Memorial Day eve, a large party there.

Having crept and crept and crept forward, I arrived at a small circle and went to park behind an S.U.V. with a license plate that said “Moon Unit,” but was told I could not. We often do it that way at The Star, and it was a Star party, and, as I told the security guard, I didn’t plan on staying long, but he was adamant.

So, there I was, told to go back, which I began to do, creeping and cursing the while . . . until confronted by an onrushing tank — for that is what I call Range Rovers and the like — driven by a guy who, when I motioned him backward with both hands, refused to give ground, just as I should have done in the first instance. He dismounted and told me that I was the one who should back up to the circle where we would all turn around. Soured on partying by then, I began backing, until, in trying to get around a particularly protuberant van, the driver’s side wheels rolled over a half-sunken log into a marshy ditch.

The guy, in passing by a few minutes later, said he was sorry.

Well underway by that time, the party was loud, and it was all I could do to hear the AAA voice on a borrowed cellphone in the tiny kitchen — an effort interrupted when told that someone with a four-wheel drive, someone whom I knew, would tow me. I ran out to where the car was, but there was no one in sight. Gloomy in the gloaming, I sat on the fender of the lopsided Solara a while longer before returning to the barge again, where a kind woman was to intercede for me with Mary over a landline phone. I was walking up the steps as Jane Bimson, a co-worker, was walking down them. 

“Mary told me to promise only to have one drink and, guess what, I’ve had none,” I sighed, after telling her what had happened.

“Have two,” said Jane.