There is a small house, three doors from the corner, on the left, yellow clapboard with a clashing tan roof, mini van in the driveway. Ring the doorbell, and it chimes the same as Big Ben. The door will open, revealing a dowdy woman with curlers set in her hair who will push up her glasses from the end of her nose to get a better look at whoever it is that is interrupting her housework, which she takes very seriously, whether she is polishing her collection of spoons which includes one from each continent, even one from Antarctica although she is quick to point out she did not actually travel there herself. She will pause, and sigh, and dream about traveling there instead of ordering it online through eBay when she snipped that guy from Pennsylvania.