It's 8 a.m., I'm sitting at the kitchen table ripping a restaurant review out of the morning paper, and a cuckoo clock chimes upstairs.
Which would be all right if we actually owned a cuckoo clock.
S., upstairs, hears it, too, but suggests that maybe the chiming came from outside.
Why would anyone be walking by our house in a drizzly, dreary rain carrying a cuckoo clock? It makes no sense.
I call L. at work, leave a message on his machine when he doesn't answer. He calls back a few minutes later to say that maybe a cuckoo clock happened to be one of the distinctive rings he's programed into the new phones.
Which would make sense if I'd heard the chiming coming from the phone that's on the counter next to the kitchen table instead of from upstairs.
I'm holding out for a poltergeist and a repeat performance at 9 a.m.
Edited to say: Cuckoo clock at 9 a.m.
Edited to say: It's booklogged's site that makes it cuckoo! I had A Reader's Journal minimized this morning for further perusal.