Law as an Arranged Marriage

Westerners in particular feign a disdain for anything approaching an arranged marriage, as though it is both barbaric and lacking in equality. This business is often thought to be the preserve of India, where apparently the class system is yet alive and well (much to the pleasure of those who hang onto the good old days of the Empire), although its legitimacy is contaminated by the reportedly popular affection there for the cow. My own experience leads me to swerve from this high road of morality, since in the past I have, for example, been accustomed to hear of the blissful marriage of Kippy Jaffrey and Morgan Eastman, an association which even the most myopic person couldn’t possibly dub a marriage made in Heaven rather than in Forest Hill.

Conquering the Forces of Evil

Even after a full eight hours in the hammock, I wasn’t especially enthusiastic about getting out of bed when the clock/radio abruptly announced the CBC news at six o`clock this morning. On the heels of seven weeks of almost uninterrupted disruption, caused by an unusually prolonged vacuum in business, car problems and a reactionary return to former indulgences, things are only just beginning to stabilize themselves once again. It is no fun being reminded of the unevenness of life though of course no one can escape it. Eventually circumstances dish out a measure of trouble. I can’t imagine why in the world I would ever assume that I should be spared such allotment, and yet it always comes as a shock, upsetting the pattern and progress of my erstwhile monotony. While I am always happy to find myself on the smooth side of the demarcation between regular and irregular events, I will never be persuaded to become so thoroughly philosophical about the rough ones to adopt an accepting view of them. It is just plain bother! And I could well do without the inconvenience.

Semi-Retirement

I don’t imagine the phrase “semi-retirement” is a term of art having a specialized industry connotation. It is however a step up from jargon and shop talk. No doubt the expression was spawned by the business culture generally, so for example it isn’t what you’d expect to hear from a housewife in her late fifties. Apart from that limitation the scope of the observation is fairly broad, dignifying everything from the former cop who works three days a week in the local hardware store to the 90 year old former CEO of a gasoline distribution company who insists on regularly checking the washrooms of its various outlets for cleanliness. Some might argue that even those who continue on full salary and who make an appearance five days a week are already semi-retired, a more flattering description than being called redundant.

“Hot enough for ‘ya?” The Art of Trite Conversation

Whether it is the Canadian vernacular or merely the absence of intelligence, casual conversation among locals is generally considered to be sorrowfully insipid. At the root of it may be nothing more than a lack of genuine concern for the well-being of others, though I am inclined to doubt the proposition since the indisputable feature of the masses is an appetite for gossip, the introduction to which must always be made to appear disinterested.

It has been said of polite conversation that it should be confined to a discussion of one’s health and the weather. Both curiosities regrettably invite little more than glib answers, none of which enlarge particularly meaningfully upon the subject at hand; viz., “Fine!” or “Yeah, hot as Hell!” The further difficulty with such dead-end precursors is that they seldom lead to the development of more expansive thinking or discussion. I mean, unless you’ve recently undergone surgery or you’re a farmer, the matters of health and weather are fairly finite. As a result the introductory comments inevitably bring the encounter to a screeching and uncomfortable end; that is, unless you are learned in the art of trite conversation.

Sent from my Blackberry Wireless

Once you are bitten by the technology bug there are seemingly endless possibilities to feed the disease which is the fruit of the sting. The only governor of the ensuing wild gyrations is the knowledge that, apart from the capital cost of the product, there are always associated “connection” costs which, while seldom overwhelming, are nonetheless one more in the rising pile of automatic deductions from one’s long-suffering bank account. It makes you stop to think, “Do I really need this?”

Dairy Queen

I am so over Dairy Queen!

Last evening, after we finished putting on the nose bag at the Golden Palace Restaurant on Carling Avenue, we got it into our heads that he needed something sweet. Our first reaction was to drive to the Dairy Queen in Arnprior, but we telephoned ahead and confirmed they only take cash (which we didn’t have). Despondent, we drove on, only to discover another Dairy Queen along the way in Kanata. We stopped there on the chance they might take credit cards which it turned out they do. Elated by our good fortune, we joined the line of the West End teenagers, children and parents and ordered our Choco-Cherry Love Blizzard and peanut buster parfait , which we then consumed under the blazing white fluorescent lights at a small white plastic table with white plastic chairs overlooking the adjoining and now darkened parking lot.

Annual Check-Up

There cannot possibly be anyone who relishes the prospect of the annual physical examination by their Physician. For men in particular, the process is punctuated with a singularly unpleasant probe heralded by the snap of rubber gloves. But equally off-putting and just as demeaning is the corollary of having to go to the clinic subsequently to submit to the blood work requisitioned by the Physician, and then having to wait to hear what if anything is wrong with you. The entire enterprise is a jarring interruption of one’s preferred daily customs, and there is nothing elegant about the medical environment, characterized as it is by overworked professionals and staff, growing numbers of decrepit people and dilapidated facilities. Canadian mores have ensured that the universal health system is the great leveller of society. I won’t say, however, that the affair has yet reached the height of humiliation which the Customs officials at the airports have managed to perfect in recent years.