"Ahhh, yes, what I had dubbed 'the idiot parade' at the Grady Hotel. They seemed to have a thing for clomping like drunken moose in the hallway outside the door to my room," he says, dryly. "In moderation, it's a pleasure, but without that moderation, it's a painful thing to all involved."

They step into a warmly lit taproom, a fire on the hearth with a hunting dog laying on the fur rug before it, a few patrons already gathered, the innkeeper behind the bar looking up from wiping out a pewter tankard. "New Sleepers, eh?" the innkeeper notes. "What'll ye have?"