"So," she said, lost in thought as her hand hovered over a mess of Post-it notes on the desk, "Is it by my left hand or my right?""Left"
"Uh..." she said in the way that betrayed the fact that she was a citizen of the colonies, "Which hand's that?"
"Left. That side."
I pointed, being no help whatsoever.
"Sorry," she said, our brain-storming meeting taking a turn for the bizarre, "we drive on the other side of the road where I come from. I still can't see it."
I could. There, clear as day, was a Post-it note bearing the word "BAZOOKA"
"It.. it's by your left hand. You drive on the right."
"No I don't - I can't drive."
"Bu... you started it."
"And don't you guys call your right hand your left over here?"
No point in arguing with this impeccable logic.
"You're absolutely correct - it's by your right hand."
"Oh yeah - there it is. Why didn't you say?"
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