I have seen the face of the Olympics and it isn't a pretty sight.
Yesterday morning, I was walking to my car, which was parked deep in the heart of the West End. Beside me was my friend, who is elderly and infirm and riding his electric cart.
At a residential intersection, we paused. My friend headed his cart towards the wheel-chair accessible curb.
Along came Lady Day.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed, 45ish and driving a huge white expensive late-model SUV.
The signage on the doors proudly proclaimed : "Official vehicle of...etc."
Adorable little Upchuck was there in all his Stonehenge glory.
Of course, Lady Day was far too important, far too burdened with a mission far too urgent, to consider for even a moment stopping to let an old man in a wheelchair go by.
She drove on.
My happy, healthy series of thoughts went something like, "Whose cousin is she? What is she being payed, $120,000? For what enormous task? How did she get this gig? Was it advertised?"
My friend and I said our goodbyes and we parted.
A few moments later, I was heading down Nelson Street towards the Cambie Bridge. Georgia would have been a better route, but given the Event that looms ahead I didn't dare risk it.
Just as this morning I will go all the way over to the Second Narrows to get to Lonsdale because I fear the potential gridlock in the Park.
All these lovely new red leather hoods on the parking meters.
Also on the parking meters on East Broadway.
Whose cousin got the contract for these things?
Over lunch my son told me that when the meters are working again they will all be in effect to 10 pm, not 8, as they have been for so many years.
As I write this, Vietnam is being replayed overhead.
A helicopter hovers.
Can they see me in my pajamas?