No. 135. Call me Cordless. He was working diligently yesterday afternoon when his least favourite person, art critic Donald Bracelet, barged into his studio unannounced and clearly overexcited: he had brought his newly acquired 1937 Cord automobile to show him. This was surprising in at least two ways. First, he hadn't talked to Bracelet for more than a year, having had little respect for the kind of guff he wrote. Second, art critics couldn't afford classic automobiles. Most of them couldn't afford dinner. So what was this visit about? The wondrous aesthetics of the venerable Cord? Probably not. It was more likely just to show off. "How can you afford a 1937 Cord?" I asked the hitherto impecunious art critic. He looked momentarily abashed--but only momentarily. "Grandfather Bracelet died," he told me. "The Cord had belonged to him." I tried to fight down my envy which was rising volcanically in my gorge. "With great cars comes great responsibility," I said, as solemnly as I could. He scowled at me--as only an art critic can scowl..