Think Pink

Spring Symphony Comes In Many Colours

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

As a child, I always wondered about the expression "as fresh as a daisy". Surely, I thought, there were other flowers that were bigger, taller, brighter, more infused with wonderful perfume …..

You see, I grew up in Calcutta, India, where we had a sprawling garden that was big enough for a badminton court near the driveway, a full-length cricket pitch near the back door, as well as an enclosed sanctuary where such missiles as soccer balls and cricket balls could not do any damage – and several long, broad garden beds.

So in my childish mind, there were many varieties that looked fresher than daisies, which I thought were probably a bit mundane.

Then I grew up (ostensibly) and married Mrs Authorblog and I became the designated gardener, teaching each of the Authorbloglets in turn everything I knew about horticulture. So when we built our own home and I had the great pleasure of designing and planning the garden, I planted some daisies that act as a beacon of the seasons.

There are huge mounds of golden-yellow daisies in winter, white daisies in late winter and now the scarlet daisies as spring loosens winter’s grip. And yes, I have finally realised that "fresh as a daisy" is entirely accurate and legitimate.


Visit Luiz Santilli Jr for the home of Today's Flowers.

In Lockdown Mode

Forgive Him, He's A Bit Rusty

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Sometimes you see the most ordinary of sights and you reach immediately for your camera. This was one of those days. I was with Mrs Authorblog and the Authorbloglets at world-renowned Bondi Beach in Sydney over the Easter weekend this year. I was surrounded by endless sand, a beautiful crescent beach, and a great sky.

But what did I photograph first? A rusty bolt and lock. Yep, that's a fact.

I'm guessing this was once used as a storage area on the way from the car park to the beach. But, judging by the state of the rotten timber, the big hole and the orange coating of rust on the metal, whatever's in there behind the lock hasn't been used in a while.

But I'm glad it's locked. Why am I glad about something so utterly incongruous? Because if it was worth protecting years ago, it probably is worth protecting still. And doesn't that apply to all areas of life?


Visit TNChick's Photo Hunt. Today's theme: "Lock''.

Airing My Dirty Linen

My Laundry Travelled Seven Thousand Kilometres

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Did I ever tell you about the day my laundry went overseas? Yup, that's right. Overseas. As in, from one country to another. And then back again. The incident has never been forgotten by my closest friends, who still hassle me about it, quite understandably.

So please allow me to set the record straight. I was in my early twenties and was spending a ten-day break in a city that was a couple of hours' flying time away from where I lived. I was visiting my girlfriend at the time and, because I was well brought up and lived a disciplined life during my boarding school years, I had my priorities right.

One of those priorities was getting my laundry done. You know what it’s like when you’re on holiday, right? So there I was, doing the right thing and getting all my dirty clothes together, when my girlfriend told me not to worry.

You see, she was a flight attendant with an international airline and was about to fly out for a couple of days. She said all I had to do was bundle my dirty clothes into a plastic garbage bag, put it into her suitcase, and she would take it on her trip and bring it back, freshly laundered.

Sounded good to me. So I did as I was told, sealed the bag and put it into the suitcase. Two days later, my girlfriend returned from her quick trip and, hey presto, I had freshly pressed shirts, jeans, you name it.

My closest friends were very impressed. Not just because my girlfriend had broken new ground, but because my clothes – and there is no subtle way to put this – had gone overseas dirty and come back clean.

PS: Did my girlfriend and I get married? Of course we did. She's the very beautiful, very intelligent and very resourceful Mrs Authorblog.


Visit TNChick's Photo Hunt. Today's theme: "Plastic''.

Rooster Booster

It’s Beginning To Dawn On Us All

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

If you can remember the last time you saw a weather vane, please let me know. No, seriously, just leave me a comment and tell me – I’d love to know, because symbols like these just aren’t as common as they used to be.

This shot was taken a year and a half ago and I recently came across it while I was looking for a different image. I was at the Royal Melbourne Show with Mrs Authorblog and the Authorbloglets when I spotted this beautiful weather vane with a cockerel atop the four points of the compass.

Unfortunately, it was not in the best position for a meaningful photograph, so I squeezed myself into a tight corner (the things we do for our art, hey?) to try and compose the best possible frame of the rooster alongside another familiar sight from the Show – the giant ferris wheel.

In retrospect, it’s interesting to reflect on this shot and the fact that it depicts not one but two symbols of international culture, irrespective of race, nationality, geography or religion.

And of course, you all remember the famous Carly Simon hit that honoured the age-old weather vane, don’t you? It was called "You’re So Vane"!

Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

Ram Beau

No Reason To Feel Sheepish

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

You reckon I've been rolling around in the slush, photographing livestock, right? Er, not quite. Yes, this is a merino, the famous drought-resistant breed of Australian sheep that is synonymous with top-grade wool. But there's more to it than meets the eye .....

I’m pretty observant, for a bloke. But don’t let that mislead you. It’s a well established fact among members of my clan that I cannot find things in a drawer, on a desk, on a table, in a cupboard, on a shelf, in a shopping bag, in a suitcase or in a supermarket aisle. But let me loose with a camera and I’ll see things that no one else can see.

Ya get my drift, right?


So when we recently went to Sydney for Easter, I had a bit of explaining to do. We pulled into a service station at Goulburn, a picturesque New South Wales town. Apart from the fact that the service station has plenty of bowsers, there is also a bakery across the street and plenty of other restaurants and outlets in a tight radius.

But as I drove towards the service station, we all noticed (some of us, ahem, more quickly than others) the huge merino that dominated the horizon. Yes, it’s the well-known Big Merino, a famous Australian tourist attraction. But here’s the problem. How come none of us had noticed it on previous trips, when we pulled in for a quick refuelling stop at the same place?

I went for the obvious option and said I must have been concentrating on a) traffic, b) pedestrians and c) speed limit signs. Spotting big merinos, I stuttered, was surely the responsibility of Mrs Authorblog and the Authorbloglets. Especially a merino that stands more than 15 metres tall.


Then, as I sat down to write this post, I did a bit of research and discovered that there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. The mammoth figure of the Big Merino was actually constructed elsewhere in Goulburn. Then, when a highway bypass was built and the tourist traffic to the merino took a huge dip, the giant figure was moved, lock, stock and barrel to its present location.

I’m so clever I should take my bar exam. Or my baaaaa exam.


Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

This Is A Bushfire Sun - At Lunchtime

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

If you saw the post Bushfires On Our Doorstep which I published on Tuesday and the follow-up post titled C Is For Courage on Wednesday, you'd be aware that we were in a bushfire zone recently.

While we discussed the need to decide rapidly what we needed to pack if we had to evacuate the house, Mrs Authorblog noticed that high above us, something else was burning.

No, there was no need to panic. It was just the sun. But as in any bad bushfire, it looked very different from what you'd expect at lunchtime.

It was only 1.36 in the afternoon, but the sun was a danger beacon.

While the fires were raging near us, I received an email from US-based blogger Jenera Healy who asked if we were all right. She said the bushfires had been reported on their local bulletins and concluded, "You know it’s a big story if they’re reporting Australian fires here in Idaho".

Just for the record, if you want to check out some other photographs of bushfire sunscapes, I did a post in December 2006 called Bushfire Sunrise and one in January 2008 called Smoke On The Water - which will show you the unusual aspects of a familiar celestial object.

For other participants in Dot’s concept, go to Sky Watch HQ.

Horse Cents

Sorry, Sir, Could I Use Mastercard Instead?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

In late 2006 we found ourselves in India unexpectedly, on a completely unplanned trip. I was only in Calcutta for little over a week, but managed to devote some carefully chosen hours to photographing the city where I was born.

It was the third week of October and while the humidity was still high, the early-morning mists were just rolling in, heralding the onset of cooler weather.

I was shooting a series of dawn shots along the Strand, by the banks of the Hooghly River, when I decided to make my way to the racecourse nearby.

The Royal Calcutta Turf Club was one of my father’s favourite weekend haunts and to honour his memory, I was compelled to walk across the road to shoot some scenes from a venue he knew so well. I shot the grandstand, the straight, the wooden rails, the final bend – and then I noticed that a couple of racehorses had completed trackwork and were being walked by their handlers towards the Hastings stables.

In the distance was the Victoria Memorial, one of the greatest symbols of this 300-year-old city. (You can view some of my other photographs of the wonderful building here.)

Would I be able to shoot the VM (as the splendid marble edifice is popularly known) over the saddle of one of the racehorses? One short sprint later, I was able to convince the horse’s handler that I was not daft (Mrs Authorblog might not agree) and that all I wanted was an unusual photograph.

All of sixty seconds later, I was done. But the handler was in no hurry. I thanked him a second time and put the lens cap back on my camera. Then I realised he wanted a tip. I rapidly computed the value of the rupees in my wallet and realised he would get an infinitely good deal because I had no small-denomination notes.

Money changed hands. Honour was restored. Handler and racehorse departed towards the stables.

Dad, if you were alive, you would smile at this closing line – but let’s just say I was the second generation of our clan to lose money on the thoroughbreds here at the Calcutta racecourse.


Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

A Is For Airport

Being Late Is A Departure From The Norm

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Since the age of 24, when I was lucky enough to be given the gig of a globe-trotting sports journalist covering cricket and tennis at the world’s most famous venues, I have caught more flights than I could ever count. I was never late for any of them.

Since I became a father and revelled in taking the Authorbloglets to wonderful cities, we have been fortunate enough to fly to some truly memorable places. Once again, we have never been late for any of our flights.

But there was one solitary occasion in 1986 when Mrs Authorblog came close to derailing my record for punctuality. We were in London and we were due to fly to Brussels for a week and we had non-refundable, non-changeable air tickets.

It was the 23rd July. If the date doesn’t exactly ring a bell, let me remind you of its significance. It was the day that Britain’s Prince Andrew married Sarah Ferguson. Mrs Authorblog was delighted to be accompanying me to Belgium, but she was not exactly over the moon about the fact that we were travelling on the day of the royal wedding.

Let me put this in context. Mrs Authorblog was a flight attendant for a major international airline, and was accustomed to check-in desks, time zones and airport protocol. But she was also (understandably, I hasten to add) not best pleased about travelling on a day when she would rather (I suspect) be standing with the throng of bystanders outside Westminster Abbey.

So we struck a deal. She would watch the start of BBC TV’s coverage of the wedding and as soon as Prince Andrew entered the church, we would leave for the airport. We had a long way to go. We were in South Wimbledon, which was a long haul (and a couple of Tube changes) to Heathrow.

Prince Andrew arrived. But Mrs Authorblog wasn’t budging. I was looking at the clock. Then a new deal was struck. We would wait until the TV cameras showed Fergie leaving Clarence House in the famous glass coach. I agreed.


That came and went. Then Mrs Authorblog asked if she could wait until Fergie walked down the aisle to meet her prince. Looking nervously at the clock and mentally computing the Underground routes and schedules, I agreed. But now I was getting rather edgy.

We sprinted to South Wimledon station, ran down the escalator to the train and Mrs Authorblog, who was suddenly rather pale at the prospect of missing the flight to Brussels, asked me in a very inconspicuous voice if we would make it to Heathrow on time. Gallantly, I said we should have about five minutes to spare – as long as the train did not stop between stations.

Sure enough, it stopped between stations about ten minutes later. By now we knew that even if we got out at the next station and took one of the London black cabs, we would still not get to the airport any quicker than if we stayed on the Tube.

When we eventually pulled into Heathrow, Mrs Authorblog led the way. As we raced towards the airline check-in desk, she just had one single piece of advice for me. "Don’t stop to help any little old ladies with their suitcases," she said.

About fifty metres later, there was – you guessed it – a little old lady struggling with her suitcase. So I did what anyone would do. I stopped and helped her – and told Mrs Authorblog I would catch up with her.

We made our flight with only seconds to spare – as they announced our names over the PA system for the third time.

Now, each time we make travel plans for the family, I always check the calendar – just to make sure no royal weddings are scheduled the same day.

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

The Last Salute Of The Day’s Light

On Final Approach To Melbourne

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

The inner child comes out every time we check in for a flight, whether it is a short domestic hop or a long international trip.

Do I want an aisle seat or a window seat?

Window, thank you very much. But now that I am a responsible father of three, I happily surrender the coveted seat to one of the Authorbloglets. No worries there.


Last week, when we were flying back across this huge country-continent from a family wedding in Perth, I kept peering past Mrs Authorblog to check the view outside the Qantas Boeing 767. The landscape changed in a range of amazing hues during the almost four-hour flight, and I knew we would be landing just minutes after inky darkness hit the sky like a squid’s secret weapon.

I had done the right thing and given Mrs Authorblog the window seat, but as I had my favourite 18-125mm lens on my camera, I knew that I’d still be able to compose a decent shot through the window if we were treated to a swift burst of striking colour.

Sure enough, just as the captain began to bank towards Melbourne’s Tullamarine airport, I saw the last burst of vivid colour beginning to coat the sky. I quickly shot a series of about ten frames, happily contorting myself (not an easy task when you’re my height) in order to capture the stunning Australian dusk.


The jet banked hard, heeling over on the port wing (that’s left, to the landlubbers) as I was about to hit the trigger and I watched in dismay as the colours swam so high up my little window in row 51 that I simply could not capture them.

Being the resourceful fellow that I am, I realised that I had a few seconds – while the pilot completed the manoeuvre – to capture the hues reflected on the metal skin of the wing, even though there was nothing but complete darkness across the leading and trailing edges.

Sure enough, the captain straightened out in a few seconds and I was level with the horizon once more. This time the colours were even stronger and more pronounced, with the wing itself in darkness this time.

To think that none of this would have happened without the Wright Brothers.


For other participants in Dot’s concept, go to Sky Watch HQ.

Hop To It

Mate, There's A Kangaroo On Ya Runway

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

As most of you would know, we've been away on the west coast for a family wedding - which is why I haven't been able to visit your blogs and collate the normal Post Of The Day nominations. But we're back home at Casa Authorblog now and life is (slowly) returning to normal.

This shot was taken as our flight was about to leave Perth airport. As usual I was craning my neck to look for interesting sights when I spotted this other Boeing 767 through a window. You can guess what happened next.

Yes, I had to jump up, get my camera out of the overhead locker and take this shot, specifically for Camera Critters. Mrs Authorblog, she just pretended she didn't know who I was.

The flying kangaroo, as the recognisable Qantas symbol is called, simply had to be photographed for this post. So there I was, in an aisle seat, twisting and contorting myself so that I could shoot this just to the side of Mrs Authorblog's stunningly beautiful profile as she sat in the window seat.

By the way, here is a trivia question for all of you. The term for a baby kangaroo is exactly the same as a character from Friends. Do you know what it is? If you don't, scroll to the very end of this post for the answer ....


Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

ANSWER: A baby roo is called a joey. (Sorry, Ross and Chandler.)

Lobby Group

Reflections Can Create A Familiar Composite Image

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

This shot was taken in the lobby of the Perth Sheraton, earlier this week while we were on the west coast for a family wedding. I was in a hurry as I walked to the car park in the company of Mrs Authorblog, but as we crossed from the reception desk to the doors, this sight caught my eye.

I was concentrating on several other factors, so I couldn't immediately identify what it was that attracted my attention. But I knew that I had to take the shot. I had walked through the lobby of the hotel several times in the previous 48 hours, but the sunlight had never produced this effect before.

Mrs Authorblog, being a good sport, waited for me, although I must admit that I have a faint memory of her rolling her eyes and tapping one foot on the marble floor. Let's put it this way. Some husbands have a wandering eye for, well, eye candy. I have a wandering eye for art, wherever and however unexpectedly it may appear.

As always, I had my camera bag slung across my shoulders, so it only took me a few seconds to take the shot. It was only after we'd flown home to Melbourne and I looked at the solitary image on my computer screen that I realised what had attracted my attention in the first place.

The image, in totality, looks as if it has been shot in some mystical cathedral. Look carefully and you'll see what I mean. The dark shape of the simple wooden crosspiece now appears as a bold crucifix, dominating the middle of the frame.

And, quite in keeping with the spirit of the theme, the striking colours of the painting on the left, when viewed through the doorway, now look for all the world like an ethereal stained-glass window.

Visit MamaGeek and Cecily, creators of Photo Story Friday.

R Is For Religion

Pray Tell, This Is No Papal Bull

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

A friend of mine once touched the Pope's hand - and swore he wouldn't ever wash his hands again, because he was so overcome by the experience. His mother and his siblings said it wouldn't matter, because he never washed his hands anyway.

These shots of the famous statue of Pope John Paul II were taken some months ago, in the grounds of the Cathedral Of The Good Shepherd in Singapore.

But yes, I have a Pope story too. Back in the days when Mrs Authorblog flew around the world as a flight attendant with an international airline, she found herself in Rome on a wonderfully appropriate day. It was the day that Pope John Paul II was due to celebrate Mass.

For any good Catholic, this was (and still is) a no-brainer. As in, throw out all your plans, toss your appointment book aside, forget about ringing the boyfriend (er, that was me, or more grammatically, it was I) and just concentrate on getting to Mass on time.

But one of the crew members accompanying the beautiful Mrs Authorblog on that Boeing 747 to Rome was our best friend. Her best friend. And my best friend. So the two women who were closest and dearest to me got into a serious discussion about their options for the auspicious day.

They could do the right thing and go to the Pope’s Mass. Or they could kick up their heels and head off in the other direction, to the local flea markets.

The way I’ve heard the story told, the discussion didn’t take too long.

At the end of the day, they caught up with the other members of the crew at their hotel. Their colleagues had stars in their eyes, a hymn on their lips and renewed faith in their hearts.

All the talk was about the Pope. At the end of the evening, one of the crew members realised that Mrs Authorblog and her best friend, normally very animated human beings, had not really said much about seeing the head of the Catholic church.

So one of them asked what the Daring Duo had thought of the Mass.

Mass? No, they hadn’t gone to the Mass. They had gone to the flea market instead.

Well, the reaction was of pure, unadultered horror. It was one of those situations where the smelling salts are called for. But the story doesn't end there. After the Daring Duo were eventually forgiven for their transgression, they were quizzed about what they had bought.

Among the purchases, they had each bought matching black skirts. The manufacturer's label on each skirt said it all. The label said: "Jesus".

Maybe the Pontiff would have approved.


For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Bring Home The Baking

I Ain't Got Nuffin', Muffin

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I was just about to put away this empty muffin tray a couple of mornings ago when I realised that the gentle light and soft shade across its coated non-stick surface was jut perfect.

Luckily I always have my camera close by, so I fired off a couple of frames. Next time you're in town, let me know and I'll bake some of my special chocolate-chip muffins. Be warned: once you've feasted on them, you'll have to come back for more.

And yes, the Authorbloglets endorse that claim. And their friends. And most important of all, so does Mrs Authorblog.

(The Odd Shots concept came from Katney. Say "G'day" to her.)

Mumbo Jumbo

Shall We Use This To Make Chili Gumbo?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

Okay, some blokes are a bit slow. We all know that, right? Is this blog a debate forum? Did I hear some of you say that ALL blokes (and not just some of us) are a bit slow? Well, I've been known to be a bit backward in my time, and today was a perfect illustration of the theory.

Let me put all my cards on the table. I can cook, I can sew, I can iron, I can garden. But sometimes I get stuck in ordinary domestic situations. Picture this: I'm standing in the kitchen, in the process of making one of the Authorbloglets a Dad's Special Cheese Omelette.

The oil is heated, the eggs have been beaten to within an inch of their life, and I've judged the heat to perfection before pouring the eggs into the frying pan. The smell is so delicious that I might just have to employ an army of trusty serfs to keep the neighbours away.

Fast forward a couple of minutes. The cheese is now placed carefully in the sizzling mixture. Aroma? SEN-sational. And it'll soon be time to fold the omelette. I have the skillet with me when a little light goes on in my head. I remember that Mrs Authorblog recently bought a great turner. I take it out of the big kitchen drawer, but there's a big sticker on it.

No worries. Any human being can remove a sticker in one swift movement. But this sticker ain't comin' away. It becomes a battle of wills. I am sort of pulling it with all my strength and it's doing what stickers do best. It's sticking.

So I call for reinforcements. Mrs Authorblog materialises and peels off the sticker in one swift motion as I stand there dumbfounded at how easy and efficiently she has made a mockery of my efforts.

Things like that happen regularly in our household.

Then another little light comes on in my head. (Aside: Yes, I know that's it's impossible for men to have more than one brainwave at the same time!) The brainwave nudges me in the direction of the word "Jumbo''. Great association of ideas. I can photograph the sticker and use it for today's Camera Critters post.

I could even test the "Jumbo Turner". If I wave this sticker at a herd of elephants, will they simply turn away? Ain't that what the sticker says? Or if I take it to the airport, will it turn a Boeing 747 Jumbo around on the tarmac?

While these brilliant thoughts run through my head, I am just about to remove the Stunning Omelette Of Absolute Perfection and I call out to Mrs Authorblog to ask if she still has the sticker.

Yes, she still has the sticker.

But has Mrs Authorblog torn the sticker to shreds? Or is it intact?

God bless Mrs Authorblog. Not only is she beautiful and wise, she is also accustomed to silly questions from me.

Yes, the sticker is intact, she tells me, with a grin.

So I deliver the omelette to the waiting Authorbloglet. Then I get the camera out. And very carefully I place the sticker back on the skillet and photograph it.

This time I find I am blessed with superpowers. For after I have finished photographing it for this post, I am magically able to remove the sticker and consign it to the bin.

You know what they say. One good turner deserves another.

Check out the rules at Camera Critters or go to Misty Dawn.

Meanwhile, Back At The Village

This Shouldn't Be All About Me/Meme

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

This post has been the subject of some self-debate. Why? Because it involves me, in a roundabout sort of way. But because I'm always happy to publicise noteworthy work by other bloggers, I over-ruled my own objections and decided to post this anyway. Pay Village Secrets a visit and check out the new David McMahon Meme. Village Secrets is an expat Aussie, so please say I sent you, say "G'day" and your visit will be appreciated even more.

Yes, the white T-shirt belongs to me. It was bought for yours truly by the beautiful Mrs Authorblog, about a year ago. Guess there is an irreverent sense of humour that touches every member of my clan, huh?

And yes, the T-shirt has three Os in Google. (You noticed that, didn't you?) I don't know why, but I guess it's to avoid being sued for copyright or trademark infringement.

Cross This Reader Off The List

Naaaah, She Just Won't Focus On My Blog

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

There was an interesting comment here recently, from US-based Lin, who writes the evocative blog Lin's Creek Journal. She said she really enjoyed the irreverent headlines on this blog and said she could just picture Mr Authorblog and Mrs Authorblog brainstorming the best headlines of the day.

Er, maybe not. Here is a true confession, Lyn. Would you like to know how many times Mrs Authorblog has sat down at the computer to read my blog? Maybe 200 times? Or 100 times? Perhaps 10 times? Maybe twice a day?

Nope. Mrs Authorblog has NEVER read my blog - and that's the honest truth. A day or two after Lyn posted the jocular comment, there was an interesting postscript. Mrs Authorblog was talking to a colleague. The colleague, who has just ventured into the blogging world, mentioned that he had been checking out my blog. He very kindly said it was a shining example of what a many-faceted blog should be. And he asked Mrs Authorblog what she thought of it.

When she admitted she had never (no, not ever, not even once) looked at the blog, he was stunned. He was aghast when Mrs Authorblog admitted that she did not even know what the url was.

In their lunch break, he was still shaking his head at this anomoly. So he insisted she accompany him to a computer in their library. He showed her the blog and insisted she leave a comment.
But the story doesn't end there. A few hours after Mrs Authorblog returned home, she asked casually (a trifle too casually) if readers had left any comments on my blog that day. Ah, yeah, I said, there were lots of comments, as usual - and I had already replied to them all, as is my wont.

``But there’s one from `Anonymous’ that I’m going to delete because I think it’s spam-related,’’ I said, scratching my head.

``Really?’’ she replied.

``Yep,’’ was my (very) slow-witted response. ``And the funny thing is, the spammer signed off with your name.’’