A pint of blood, that is. Tuesday, June 14 is World Blood Donor Day 2011. I’m just putting the idea out there, although I don’t expect everyone to rush the bloodmobile van all at once,

In fact, I think you shouldn’t donate tomorrow.

According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, 50 million people in this country are “food insecure,” i.e., they do not have regular access to adequate nutrition. More than 17 million of them are children.

You can help, at least a little.

I brought a cold and/or upper-respiratory bug from Cornwall to London. (Should have stuck with postcards, huh?) It worsened the next day so I decided to go to bed early rather than see “War Horse.” The virus had chewed its way into my bones.

Fortunately I’d packed some cold meds. A paranoid traveler is a prepared traveler, as well as a traveler who doesn’t have to go out in search of a pharmacy when she’s feeling like homemade shit.

As I crept along the hostel hallway I saw some young dude using a cell phone. He hung up and said, “Hallo, how are you doing?” Couldn’t place his accent or his provenance.

I replied, “I’m sick and I’m going to bed” and kept moving.

He followed me. “You are sick? What’s wrong?”

“A cold.” I coughed to punctuate/demonstrate. “Good night.”

“You should take a shower,” he said.

That sounded odd to me but I shrugged it off. “Maybe later.” As I pushed the heavy door open I saw the light I’d left on was now out. Apparently my roomies were early-to-bed types, too. So I opened the door as little as possible to keep out the hallway glare and slipped through the narrow space.

And the guy tried to follow me in.

When the Megabus from Cardiff dropped me off last week, I headed toward Victoria Station and found myself trudging along in lockstep with thousands of Underground commuters. I followed the crowd into the subway car, carrying my suitcase in front of me. Then people stopped moving. I could see there was room elsewhere in the car, but apparently these folks liked being close to the doors.

“Excuse me, could I get by?” I said.

No one moved.

“I’m not quite in, please let me get by,” I said, louder.

This was met with a peculiarly British inertia. People looked at advertising placards, or their shoes. A few looked at their cell phones, as though scanning texts. Nobody looked at the tired American tourist who was carrying way too much baggage. (Physical, not emotional.)

Then the doors shut on me.

The blogger at the The Quest for $85,000 is about to become an empty nester. Her son’s set to move out soon, which means all four fledglings will officially be launched.

It will be odd, she muses, to live “on my own terms again without worrying about the impact my choices will make on impressionable lives.”

Quest: You don’t know the half of it. For starters, you’ll be able to walk around in your skivvies without giving your progeny a sight they can’t un-see.