The word for the night is FEAR. No, not fear of terrorism, war, or some unknown respiratory disease... the residual fear of 1842 Bonita Road, San Pablo.

Most of you probably know that my scary landlady, Patti, never returned my security deposit after I moved out of her house last year. I took Patti to small claims court in December, and won by default the security deposit, damages, and court costs - a total of $922. After some months of trying to collect a voluntary payment from her with letters and unreturned phone messages on her mobile number, I finally found Patti's home telephone number and called this evening to offer her the opportunity to pay up before I send to the sheriff for a wage garnishment. She answered the phone. When she found it was me, she handed the receiver to...

...Iris. Her unsavoury little girlfriend whom you've probably already heard more about than needs ever to be told again. We had a reasonably civil conversation about why I was calling Patti in the first place, and I managed to escape before any abuse could be screamed at me, but I still feel a little ill even two hours after the call. I think I may understand, a tiny little bit, why people hire lawyers.