You will excuse me if I look a trifle tired, but I was up all night trying to free an item that I had purchased from one of the many splendid stores in the Beach from its packaging. It is a fine item and one that I am sure will stand me in good stead when placed in service, but so far that is pure conjecture. It is encased in a sturdy receptacle made of clear plastic, and that only adds to my frustration because I can see it all snuggled down in its bed of quality cardboard. However, it might just as well be secreted somewhere in a Tibetan monastery, because try as I might, I cannot spring it from its plastic tomb unless I call in those folks who detonate a bomb thingy that blows everything to shreds.

The plus side to that is that the object of my attention will emerge unscathed, but the negative side is that it will prove to be too small or the wrong color and now has a distinctive odour of gunpowder clinging to it. When I try to return it, a heated argument followed during the course of which a security officer the size of a pickup truck appeared, escorted me to the door and dropkickeds me over three rows of parked cars.

This sort of treatment tends to discourage me from ever going into that store again, but that is why I am looking tired and I hope my explanation satisfies your curiosity. As for me, I have vowed never to buy anything again that does not come in a sturdy cloth bag.

At this point I would like to say something in favor of snow. To those of you who have short memories, snow is that soft stuff that cloaked everything in a mantle of white from November until April, when it disappeared just in time for baseball season.

I know this is a subject I have dwelled upon in the past but it is important to remind the younger generation that there is more to winter than lilacs blooming in backyards all over this much-blessed land and little tweety birds that fly over the boardwalk the year round. Snow brings invigorating cold that in turn heightens our appreciation for a glowing fireplace, and it adds beauty to our otherwise drab landscape. I love snow, and I mourn its absence this winter.

On the brighter side of matters I am pleased to report that Sturdy Gert McCurdy has found herself a new fella, a chap of lugubrious temperament she calls Edwin the Morose. I know I am going to like him because we share a fondness for toast.

What I want to know is why has toast all but disappeared from the menu. There was a time when a man could sit down in a restaurant and order a coffee and toast. When it arrived, the toast consisted of several pieces of white bread that had been placed in a toaster and heated to an attractive shade of brown. Then things began to change in that subtle way that authorities use when they start to pull a fast one on us consumers. You were asked if you wanted white, brown or rye bread and, in the confusion that erupted, the powers that be got rid of using bread for toast. Now patrons are served mountainous blobs of some doughy substance studded with what appears to be caraway seeds.

The word toast has a long and honored place in our vocabulary and as proof I offer these examples: At weddings we toast the bride and groom, a popular person is referred to as the toast of the town and when we snuggle under the bedcovers on a cold winter’s night, we gradually become as warm as toast. Now excuse me while I join some friends and drink a toast to our Olympic heroes.