Another broken piece of jewelry. Not badly broken - this necklace by Edward (who in another dimension is also our wonderful hairdresser) is easily salvaged with the aid of a steady hand and the plier thingy on my Swiss Army Knife. But why is it that I seem to leave a trail of broken necklace clasps and semi-detached bracelets behind me? And that's before I get to the earrings that somehow get stuck in scarves and detach themselves on flights never to be seen again, or those that are scavenged off and taken under the bed to be used as cat toys, or that I put in a Safe Place in a toilet bag when traveling, and that, with luck, I rediscover six months later. And that, in turn, doesn't account for the occasional piece of pilfering - like the favorite pendant that disappeared from the Carolina Inn last week - together with - or rather, on a different day from - my iPod and, more mysteriously, half a packet of (allegedly) revivifying bath salts. There is a limit, I feel, to the number of items that one can carry around with one all day (and no, the room didn't have a safe). Harrumph.