My father is apparently prone to diarrhoea. I remember many occasions when he would, after a long and nervous ring, burst into our apartment in Belgrade, cut across the livingroom with short but brisk steps of a demented geisha, and slam the bathroom door behind him without greetings. Quite naturally, there were several instances when this dramatic performance failed to culminate in a happy-ending. Although I have not myself witnessed any of my father’s misfortunes, which I certainly regret, I have occasionally heard stories about them from my mother. The most wonderful of these stories is a favorite in my mother’s sparse repertoire, no matter how modest she otherwise tends to be about such topics. The story begins with her stock preface: “Oh, let me tell you how terrible this was!” One day when she heard my father’s familiar ring she happened to be entangled in something or other, so she could not get to the door as quickly as she normally did. The ringing became desperate. Then it stopped. When she finally managed to open the door, she found my poor father kneeling on the doormat. She usually squeals and whines while she elaborates this scene with a detailed account of his imploring expression, his paleness, and his embarrassed distress. Looking for a handkerchief, she catches her breath, and she adds with a sigh: “Of course, it was too late.” This is typically followed by another round of squealing and whining, at which point my father joins her in her blissful giggle. One could almost sense a touch of pride in the way he now laughs about this nearly forgotten incident. More often than not, he looks around the room for approval of their merry company, squirming in his armchair and shaking his head knowingly all the while. And indeed, one cannot but find him most loveable when he behaves like this.