I am in a hotel three quarters full of white-haired old dears. Most of the white-hair belongs to the female of the species, outliving their partners seems common. I was reminded of the fact that cruise ships, another magnet for white-hairs, have a spare kitchen pantry assigned as a morgue for all those whose mortal coils are gently shuffled by the ripples on the ocean. They freeze the bodies on the high seas. In our hotel, I imagine they just cook them. Since we lost a biddy on the steps of the hotel lobby last night, I will be steering away from any pork kebabs for a few days.