»In which we eat ice-creams

While en route in the famous Mitchell's Ice Cream parlour, I cursed Sunday drivers but stopped short of throwing stones: just a moment before I had pulled a strange half U-turn which resulted in my blocking a crosswalk in a busy residential neighbourhood. And I did so in front of two prowlers! (One drove slowly past and gave me a look so dirty bleach was necessary to remove it -- but, luckily for me, they had bigger fish to fry.) I made the bizarre turn reflexively, perhaps because it was exactly what I would have done were I on a bicycle. But I was not, and I narrowly escaped 2 points and a whatnot from San Francisco's finest, who, thanks to the blossoming Lower Haight neighbourhood group, are patrolling in full effect.

Usually the driving path to the outer mission takes one along Guerrero, or Dolores, both of which are beset upon by double-parking Baptists. What gives them licence to occupy a lane of traffic? Why can I not do so of a Friday evening, for example, if I wanted to duck into Tartine for a coffee? But those who live in glass houses, et cetera, so I kept quiet for once and wound up rather enjoying a chocolate-dipped chocolate caramel cruch ice-cream cone.