I have a friend who looks like Martha Stewart. And, I'll bet anyone that she entertains MORE than Martha Stewart. Heck, she once even had Martha Stewart show up hungry at her house and she whipped up a snack out of old leftovers. That's bravery of the highest magnitude.

I don't know how my friend can possibly maintain her sanity when she has a daily parade of guests and their attendant children swarming her house.

Last week, I had nine people over for Saturday dinner. Four of them spent the night. By the time they left late Sunday morning, they had stopped up my toliet and broken Napoleon's leg.

They didn't mean to do it. And I will gladly have them back again . . .I'll just dog their every step and only hand out pre-allotted strips of toliet paper.

They were French. And because I'm a Francophile and they were so polite, thin, and soft-spoken, and actually alerted me that the toliet was clogged and that the sheep had jumped over the riverbank while being chased, I can't bring myself to eagerly rail against them as as I would if they had been loud, Big-Mac-devouring Americans or loud, gin-soaked Brits.

Speaking of the British, we have a new one renovating his little shack down the road. He's young and buff and good-looking . . .a descriptive note for my single-friends who are thinking of visiting. (Note that I will confiscate any toliet paper you try to smuggle into my house.)

In reluctant defense of the British, on Wednesday my French-hating friend Norman came racing down the hill to see if I was alright after I had frantically left two messages on his message machine regarding the broken leg of the sheep.

I have to admit that I'm having to re-evaluate my Anglican prejudices. A nice shot of gin would hit the spot right about now . . .