By all accounts, Norm shouldn't be alive.  He should be picking himself out of the tangled and charred remains of the cab after it wrapped itself around a tree, a telephone pole, or possibly a double-decker bus.  But the cab, he figures, is probably something similar to the Knight Bus; somehow it magically manages to be where all the other cars aren't.<br/><br/>After regaining his land legs, he stumbles up to the main entrance of his flat building.  Ah, good old 27 Post Lane.  As good a collection of cat-collecting spinsters and misanthropic recluses as he could ever hope to meet.  Nodding obligingly to Gerry the permanent fixture in the lobby, Norm sidled down the hallway, noting with approval that the water stain on the peeling yellow wallpaper (seriously--who in their right mind thinks that yellow is ever a good color for wallpaper?) has increased another centimetre in length.   Norm has been keeping a journal on its progress.  By his estimation, the stain will reach the floor by September.<br/><br/>Five minutes and one rickety elevator ride later, Norm pauses outside of his flat on the fourth floor.  Excellent.  The hair cunningly taped across the gap from door to frame has not been moved.  Of course, Norm has to break the barrier, but it's of no account as he unlocks the door.<br/><br/>In the laughably small room that passes for his study, he unlocks the bottom desk drawer and finds what he is looking for--a Walter P22.  Tucking the gun into his right pants pocket, he locks the desk up again, leaves the flat, and re-secures the hair in place again.  Everything is exactly as it should be.<br/><br/>Five minutes more and he is back at the cab.  "Sorry about that," he says, looking comparatively more cheery.