Tomorrow morning, we leave Bath. I've been meaning to tell more Bath stories--for instance, the day I went to the baths with my friend Lib, and we swam around, and I had a facial from a shaved-headed fellow named Bob, who gave me a head massage that suggested he was looking for nits and at one point ran his fingers over my face in just the way that I, at age 11, might have done to a friend I was trying to hypnotize. Or our visit to Noah's Ark Farm, which is run by people who believe that both strict creationists and Darwin have got it wrong: evolution is a process set off by God. Or a visit to the amazing atelier of Timothy Richards, an architectural model maker who showed us the Irish Parliament coffee-table sized. If you're ever in Bath, his place is on my must-see list. Perhaps the only thing worse than a writer quoting herself is one quoting her husband, but I think of a line from Edward's Alva and Irva: "Miniature things move people."