Bucharest. Merciless midsummer heat. Air, buildings, people, cars and stray dogs are boiling together in a primordial broth. The tarmac has become soft as plastiline and keeps the record of all the soles that have passed, in a postmodernistic representation of "veni, vidi, vici". Deep, steep indentations mark the passing of fashionable ladies in expensive high-heeled shoes. But being fashionable can become a serious haphazard. A well dressed, blonde young lady (I mean expensively dressed, for she only wears a microscopic top and a skirt more adapted in size for a belt) has caught her expensive spiked heel in the tarmac. Try as she might to free herself, the heel remains stuck there. Damnations! That shoe together with its brother must have cost a small fortune. Saved it must be, by any means. So the young lady steps out of the shoe and bends low to pull the heel out. She bends low enough for anybody to see her fashionable and expensive thong under the skirt-belt (or belt-skirt, as you prefer). Youngster pull out their expensive mobile phones and take pictures. One even zooms in to catch the image of the thong tag with the "I.D. Sarrieri" logo on it. I can't just stay there, and try to save whatever's left of the lady's dignity. I gently tap her on the shoulder. "Ma'am.... ummm... ahem, you might want to get up a bit. Your... errr... underthings are showing." She stands up sharply and grabs me by the arm: "Perverts! You're all perverts. Gays, lesbians all! So what, liked my thongs and thought to try you're chance. I'm a straight, normal woman, you, pervert!" I walk away abashed. Now, there, I try to help the woman and that's what I get. The world has surely changed. A few years ago I might have expected words of thanks. And skirts a lil bit longer. Whatever... Flomp-flomp, my flip-flops are descending into the soft tarmac but don't get caught. Anyway, I wear trousers. I may bent all the way to the other side of the world and my privates stay private. Further down the road the same scene: a skimpy, but expensively dressed woman (a redhead, now) has caught her heel in the tarmac. Desperate, but fruitless efforts, stepping out of the shoe, bending down, thong exposed. This one has the "Triumph" logo on the tag. Mobile phones out, picture taking... But I've learned my lesson. So, instead of a tap on the shoulder and a polite warning, I just inform the lady: "You might want to browse www.fun-resource.com tomorrow. You'll see that you're the star of the day."