Three weeks earlier, Bjo, Al, Eleanor Turner and Steve Tolliver had seen me off at the same terminal. My tickets had been bought months earlier, and I had told everyone of my travel plans -- a weekend in Philadelphia and New York, and then the bulk of the trip in England and North Ireland. But it wasn't until we got to the boarding gate that Bjo looked at the flight destination and really believed me. "You're not going to England at all!" she accused. "You're going to spend the whole time in Philadelphia with Peggy Rae McKnight and make up a phony TAFF report!" I sighed, reminded her I'd told her a long time before that I was going to Philly first, kissed her good-bye and whispered, "You're right -- but don't tell anybody." I boarded the plane, my crew of bon-voyagers left the airport, and as always TWA announced that there would be an hour delay before take-off; so I wandered around the nearly-deserted terminal building alone until we re-embarked; and finally, after anticipating the trip since September when Don Ford told me I'd won TAFF, I was in the air and on my way to England. Figuring on a lot of uneventful travel time during the three weeks, I had brought along Le Sage's Gil Blas, figuring that an episodic eighteenth century novel ought to keep me in reading matter for a longtime; the first few chapters brought me sleep, and I woke in Philadelphia. Philadelphians are generally in a hurry; it must be an effect of living so near Manhattan, where people are always in a hurry. I was rushed about the airport by people until I found myself, with luggage, outside looking for transportation into the city. A stout, grizzled old man was stamping up and down before a limousine, wherein sat three timid people. "$1.35 to Philadelphia," he spat at me. "If you don't like it, you can take a cab for $3.50." Starting, I realized that staring at him wouldn't get me any nearer town, so I paid him and loaded my suitcase and self aboard. I tried to get a shot of him. because he was a fascinating caricature of a man with a hideous scowl spread over his broad, heavy features, and a great black cigar -- but unfortunately this was the first time I'd tried to set up Al's camera for a real shot, and by the time I'd remembered how to arrange filter, speed, focal length and aperture, he had scared three other people into the limousine and was getting in himself. He should have been by Dickens. When my Barkis deposited me in the center of Philadelphia, I made my way to the McKnight apartment, where I got a very funny greeting. Peggy Rae had spent the night there so I wouldn't have to go straight out to the farm, and about two hours earlier she'd gotten a telegram. Telegrams are always bad news, but this one said: SHAGGY WANTS YOUR TAFF REPORT STOP UNICORN PRODUCTIONS WILL BUY ALL FILM RIGHTS STOP TELL HIM TO GET RID OF THAT UGLY TIE STOP JOHN BJO AL STEVE ELLIE She showed that telegram to everybody we saw that weekend, including her parents, Terry Carr, Pat and Dick Lupoff, and the Shaws. But besides that, it was an enjoyable weekend. We spent Saturday in Philly babysitting her nephew David, and went out to the family farm in Lansdale that night.., Sunday, Buddie McKnight made her table groan gently under a burden of oriental food for Dinner, and in the early afternoon Peg and I took a bus to New York.