A man should listen to his wife. This ought to be a firm, uncontested Canadian law. The Supreme Court should deliberate only for a moment on the issue. Then rule on the matter. Let it be enshrined. Glorified, so to speak. Firm, unfettered, fixed and as noble as the Charter. An ideal. A Canadian first.
I should listen to my wife. It's a jest that unquestionably but truly applies to me. I know when I'm in trouble. It's easy because I depend regularly on her to fix the mess which I've created. On a minor level, a button requires mending as I'm about to leave for a Mess Dinner. My wife would say: 'you've only known about this for a year because the Mess Dinner falls on the same date every year!'
Here's another one. It's time for Mansbridge and the nine. I've got a seven o'clock T-off in the morning. My wife asks if I remembered to fill the tank in my CRV? No, but I do recall noticing the gauge very low earlier in the week. Faster than Superwoman, she's off to fetch some petro. My wife. Always forgiving. Always fixing.
Now it's about February 20th, 2011. I intended to write a Magnificant, Momunental, Memorable Mystery. I had announced that I would publish it by February 23 as that date falls in line with May 23 which is the anniversary of the Force.
My wife attended the University of Western Ontario. She majored in English, French and History. She's a whizz. Knows all about the hollow horse trick. Can't stick her on Greek wars. She can name all the Generals. Knows every street in Rome. She also knows how to spell.
Over the long weekend, my wife notices a little wrinkle in my brow. Asks what's wrong? So, I happen to mention that I'd like to write a mystery. It's due in forty eight hours. As I've said, I know when I'm in trouble. Too late for help from my wife as she has exams to mark.
I've got to appeal for more time. One wouldn't think that a mystery would be that difficult. I know I need a plot and I thought I had one -- The Mystery of the Missing Police Dog. But, my wife pointed out that most police dogs rarely go missing. After all, she explained, a police dog has a trained, very sensitive snout. 'Give it more in depth thought', she instructed. Think.
Little weeny, weeny girls never seem to forget. I have a niece. When she was a little girl she would ask me to tell her scary stories -- mystery police stories - - preferably scary ones just before bed. I had a favourite. I had to use my imagination. An alligator had caught me in the deep swamps in Namibia where I had once worked. I had to fight the alligator. At one point he ate both my arms. Her eyes got bigger and bigger. He got my legs too! As my niece grew older, her questions about the alligator became more complex. How, for example, do you explain your wedding ring and your university rings which remain on your fingers? Smart kid, eh?
So now, I'm back to my mystery. My wife can't help me. I've learned that it takes more time than I've allowed. Guess I won't be sleeping for a few days. I sure need something by the 23rd.
I should have listened to my wife. Oh, well.
'Maintain Our Memories'
J. J. Healy