From Paris, With Steroids . . .

We were scouring the shelves of a curio/junk shop for a present for Jools's upcoming birthday. "How about a necklace, direct from Paris?" I asked in a solicitous wife-pleasing whine, pointing to these trendy adornments.

She looked, raised a skeptical eyebrow, reached across and held one of the enormous necklaces. Then she replied, dismissively, "Christ, I'd need to be a Russian shotputter-babe-on-steroids to lift this thing every morning, never mind walk around all day with it wrapped round my neck like a new-age horse-collar."

"I'll take that for a nay," I responded, niftily ducking beneath a heavily-laden handbag . . .