From the Department of Redundancy Department

Dear Travelocity,

I have already booked a trip to London. I did so some two-three weeks ago. Therefore, you do not need to send me daily email on "OMG LONDON FARES SOOOOO CHEAP!!1". You will only annoy me.

Yours &c,

me.

Towards the empyrean heights, &c.

Picture a pack of six or so women, of varying degrees of Irish blood (ranging from the McMahon, the McGowan, and the Maguire on down), wanting to celebrate St. Boozer's Patrick's Day, but wanting to avoid the hordes of drunken bozos swilling green beers and belching out old tunes they don't know the words to.

So, we are dressed to the nines, will have dinner at a wee French bistro of our acquaintance, and then will proceed to the fabulous Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel[1]. Because not only is it swank and historical and stuff, they are also going to gut the place and turn it into condos starting in a month. And what is more Irish than alcoholic sentimentalism over a glorious past now fading?

[1] Yes, the one where Eloise lives