I was off on Friday, as our offices were closed, and I returned in the relative sunshine this morning to this message, left by an anonymous woman:

Lady, you haven�t been at your desk all day. Now, you need to get with it. I�m gonna call the City Manager and the City Administrator to make sure that you do pick up that phone.

It's slightly thrilling to be addressed only as "Lady," as if I'm the subject of a Lionel Richie ballad. I also enjoyed the snarl she managed to work in on "get with it," like she's a gun moll who's cornered me by the phone booth in a seedy bar. "Get with it, see? Or Fast Johnny's gonna disappear ya, but good!"

I was less thrilled by the way she spat out the word "phone." I wish I could play the message for you. Maybe I'm reading into this anonymous message too deeply--it wouldn't be the first time--but I perceived a level of scorn attached to that "phone" indicating that the speaker believes that the best I'll ever do in life is to answer bitchy phone calls from people like her.

Happily, there's nothing I can do about this phone call. The caller didn't leave her name, or a number, or even what she wanted. That lets me off the hook, I believe. My only option is to canvass the neighborhoods, searching for a bitter, middle-aged, vitriolic woman with a New England accent, and beg her to tell me what she needed from me. I'm picturing her with brassy, frizzy hair and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. And a sweatshirt bearing the image of puffy teddy bears wearing plaid vests. And stretch pants. Faded pink ones. And moccasins. And she's spitting on the floor. Spitting poison.

If you see her, say hello. Tell her I'm back at my desk, so she can knock off bothering the city manager, whoever that is, with her complaints, and head on back to Violet Country. The doctor is in.

Star of the day. . .Ray Davies