Mrs. Robinson

I'd like to know a little bit (more) about him for my files, but what I do know is that, in addition to his killer good looks and his sailboat, Boz has the sense of humour of a postage stamp and no talent for flirting, whatsoever.

Seriously. I mean, were Mae West herself to walk up to him and inquire as to the unconfirmed existence of a pencil in his pocket, he would obliviously confirm its existence by handing it to her.

If it were just the latter character flaw, I'd think maybe it's me. That he's onto my not-so-inner dorkiness. Or that he's holding the ripped sail thing against me. But I've seen the former in action too many times, in the company of others — like today, with Liz, our convivial Postie, and a couple of squirrels — and have formed the opinion that the ability to engage in the latter is a direct result of one's skills in the former.

Is that a pencil in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? That's funny. That's witty. That's clever.

Still, I refuse, just yet, to consider the possibility that every way I look at it I lose, and so I'm going to take Angela's advice.

We've got a federal election coming up in a few weeks, and this Sunday, I'm going to the candidates' debate.

* * *
Postmodern Postscript: Sadly, there was nothing storyworthy about the debate. Olivia Chow, the NDP candidate, won in our riding. I'm sure Boz is happy about that—I suspect he votes lefty. Myself, I'm a Liberal. But I digress. There's nothing to report because I've hardly seen the man, what with it being winter, when most Canucks hibernate. That may have been him I saw one day, in a knitted cap and a beige suede coat; it may not. Meanwhile Angela's in Italy, where it's nice and warm. And from whence comes this email.