I have been roundly wrapped on the head by the likes of Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish and The Countess Bedelia for putting myself under house arrest after last weekend. I insulated myself from Trouble as best I could: Locking the gate, not answering calls, eating crackers and soup. Trouble was kept in place for an entire week.
On Sunday afternoon, there was some inclination to find Trouble. I, of course, was firmly against the notion; having led a prayer meeting earlier, I thought it totally inappropriate. There was, however, that look on Terry's face; translated from hieroglyphics, it spelt Trouble.

Some boys just seem to look for Trouble; it is always just a Speedo away.

I really was trying to be good...at least for a legally binding amount of time, but on Saturday night Gary (on the left) walked into my kitchen, naked, and announced that a pool party had begun. My housemates had initiated another bacchanal. I was appalled, mostly because I was just putting the final touches on my dinner for Mr. Astor; we ate quickly.

Trouble in Latin terms times three: Chris, Leopoldo, and Achilles.

In the end, Trouble is not a place or a person, it is a fog that creeps under the most locked door and, well, makes you crazy.