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Paul went home today.

He's one of two of the bureau's security guards who take turns--six weeks in-county, six weeks off--protecting us when we venture into Baghdad.

More like a guardian angel, if you can describe a small-college linebacker-sized bloke from Manchester, both Popeye arm muscles tattooed, who carries an AK-47, in angelic terms.

A 12-year veteran of the Royal Marine commandos, he's been doing this job in Iraq for four years. Like most of those guys--the five who ran the Centurion training course in rural Virginia back in April for us hacks deploying to war zones come to mind--he doesn't talk much about his military career. I know he spent time in Northern Ireland during "the Troubles," and there was a hint about winter fun and games in Norway, where both the U.S. and UK Marines trained to stop the Russkies from infiltrating Finland.

Merced recycles. So do I.

For the past year, I've been putting my kitchen scraps into a compost pile in my backyard. I surrounded it with cinder blocks and covered it with plastic. The pile grew and grew, and I was surprised by how much I kept out of my trash can.

Unfortunately it became a home for all sorts of bugs that would wander into my house once in a while.