Shout-out to my anagram peeps, and "let them eat cake"

First to weigh in with the correct solution to the anagram "up my lacerant C" et al is John Bates of Gloucester, Mass, followed closely by Devon Frye of Phoenix, Arizona, and, in third place,
Rosemary Carter of Waltham, Mass, all of the USA. Now we know who is up late on Sunday nights wasting their time reading this ridiculous blog!! Cheers. I will not publish the correct answer so that the rest of you can wrangle with it.

Ran into a local erstwhile blog reader today, but said individual has either not been diligent in keeping up with the latest entries requiring anagram-solving, or chose not to expose Blogmama's identity in public. I'll give the individual the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter--you know who you are.

This encounter happened after I had "tea" (read, coffee) with some of the St. John's Women's Club ladies at Cafe Richoux near the "hi" street. There were seven of us there, and I had a chance to chat with the two who were closest to me. Despite being a known celebrity hang-out (you-know-who has been personally seen there by one of the women) the service was terribly slow. It took two hours to get served tea, a platter of finger sandwiches (cucumber & butter, salmon and ?, chicken and mayo, egg salad, all on soft bread with the crusts cut off) and a platter of scones, fresh butter, and jam/marmalade. As school-release time approached, the moms became restless. It turned out that our prix-fixe tea included a slice of cake each, and not one of us had the time or room to spare for the crowning confection. We got seven slices of chocolate mousse cake individually boxed and each went on our way.

On the way home, I stopped by the reception desk at the Hospital to see if I could track down the volunteer coordinator, who has been putting me off since I got here about coming in to volunteer. I had carefully laid my plans last May, and was told that all I needed to do when I got here was pop by for her to inspect my passport and to apply for a criminal background check. I've been phoning and emailing her to no avail, to set up an appointment to do just that. One day I even went over in person, but the receptionist sent me through the door and shouldn't have, as I wound up right in the middle of the lunch-time tray service in the hospice itself and was escorted out the door by a frazzled Volunteer Coordinatrix. She told me that she was swamped, as their ambulance driver had gone on holiday, and the replacement drivers that had been sent were not working out. She wound up having to drive the ambulance herself, and put me off until she was done with that. I knew that the backgound check would take weeks or months before I could actually begin volunteering, and I knew that once I had my work visa I'd be doing more than just volunteering, and wanted to get the hospice on my weekly schedule before it got full of other commitments (knitting group, anyone?)

I went to the reception area, still carrying the box of cake, and decided I would give it to the VC if she seemed even remotely friendly. ("let them eat cake" not-withstanding, a little chocolate mousse cake might have been able to sweeten her). Fabian, the friendly young gentleman receptionist suggested that I go right on through the double doors to find her, but I knew better than to pull that stunt twice. He was then happy to phone VC for me. She'd be out in five minutes, I was told.

As I waited in the reception area, a lot of drama unfolded. Fabian was distracted from his phone-answering and his Sudoku-puzzling by the need to give patients directions to various offices, obtain a porter for a shouting elderly woman who needed a wheelchair, chat with staff dropping by to talk about football, discuss the need for a consistent set of judging rules on questionable football calls by the line judge, help someone for whom the automatic doors would not open by saying "shazzam!" (at which point they opened on their own), tell other staff members what celebrities they looked like, etc. I was so engrossed by his performance that I didn't notice that a full twenty minutes had elapsed. "Fabian, do you reckon that she's forgotten me?" I asked. He reckoned that she had, and got on the phone again. He reported that she'd gotten waylaid, and would be right out.

That was when I decided that the offering of chocolate mousse cake would probably not go over too well. There had to be another option for it besides it coming home to reside in my fridge, from whence it would call my name in the night until I subdued it with a fork and a glass of milk.
Aha! Perhaps Fabian would do me the favor of taking it home. "Oh Fabian... do you like chocolate mousse cake?" He brightened visibly, then shook his head. "No, I'm trying to keep the weight down, I really mustn't, thank you, though, I'd love it really, but I need to say no, thanks, I'm trying to, you know, ...." He looked like a fine specimen to me, but I wasn't going to press any further. I told him why I was trying to give it away.

"I've just moved here", I said, "and although I do a lot of walking now, Dr. D's scales tell me that I am gaining weight. I told him that they are in serious need of re-calibration, but I'm afraid it's the chocolate cake, the beer, and the Stilton and Wensleydale cheeses that are influencing them." Fabian smiled a twinkly smile that let me know he was sympathetic to my plight. "I just love a mature cheddar cheese myself" he said. I was just about to go into a reverie about English cheeses when who should enter the lobby but the Marquis of Kilo-Mismeasurement himself.

"Hello!" he said, although I'm not sure if it was to Fabian, or to both of us, if indeed he even recognized me. "Ah, Dr. D., we were just talking about how your scales are in serious need of re-calibration. "Yes, I know" he began to joke. I received a doctorly handshake. "Are you here for the hospice?" He had been previously informed of my interest in volunteering. "Yes, I'm waiting to talk to VC". Without thinking, I thrust the gilded box of cake towards him. "Here, I think YOU should have this piece of chocolate mousse cake, since your scales tell me that I really shouldn't eat it, and Fabian here won't take it." The kind doctor gamely tried to offer it to Fabian, who continued in his steadfast refusal. A struggle of wills ensued, with the end result of Dr. D. taking the chocolate mousse cake with the intention of sharing it with the guys "out front", presumably in the main hospital reception area. Better the cake should be in their hands (and ultimately, cells) than on my hips and less-than flat abs. All the more carbohydrate fuel for them to convert into lactic acid, which in the presence of oxygen should enable their cells to metabolize stored energy into electrical signals, creating muscle contractions and therefore, work, and heat. (Oops, sorry, lapsing into a past-life experience involving frog dissection.)

This calorie-filled cake exchange was interrupted by the entrance of VC, who did not recognize me at ALL, and who was underwhelmed to see me, to say the least. I was able to get onto her calendar in a few weeks' time to start the criminal record background-check process. I sincerely hope that the illegal U-turn that I was caught doing in 1992 by Belmont's Finest doesn't come back to haunt me. Don't hold your collective breaths, dear readers. I'm more likely to have tea with Busta Rhymes, P. Diddy, and Snoop Dogg combined (all apparently clients of our solicitor) AND to do Reiki on HRH the Queen before I am allowed to volunteer at the hospice.

This was entirely too much excitement, so I left to go rest up on the bench at the famous road crossing, to wait for TeenE's exit from her voice lesson nearby. I waved toward the web-cam in case any of you were watching, and directed a couple of Japanese tourists to the correct "zebra crossing" (there is another one perpendicular to the correct one).

After all that excitement, TeenE and I retired to A Flat on Abbey Road, to make and consume fresh pesto on angelhair pasta and do our respective homework.