On Friday afternoon, I get the fifth inquiry in an hour.
"Where do I register?"
"Ballroom, down the hall," I say to a leprechaun dressed in pink. I have to resist the urge to say, "Oooh, he's after me Lucky Charms" like the old commercial. I'm not sure they even play that commercial anymore.
The Celtic sprite from the Emerald Isle dances off in that direction. He's only the second leprechaun I've encountered during this conference. Smoking a pipe, with red hair and more bling than a hip-hop/rap artist, he looks like a leprechaun ought to, except for the pastel attire. It seems natural that a leprechaun would be a magic artifact peddler. They can't all have pots of gold at the end of rainbows, can they? Or maybe that's where they bank.
"Hey," I call out.
He stops and whirls around, his expression genial. "Yes, my fine fellow?"
"Does every leprechaun have a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?"
