Columnists

lsproule@thereview.
A swath of yellow lay in front of the shopper, as his gaze swept from side to side. From a distance, I watched him look over the dozens of bunches of bananas. Finally, he selected one bunch and put it in his grocery cart.
What, I wondered, did that bunch of bananas have that all the others didn’t? On this busy Saturday before Mother’s Day, I suddenly noticed the shoppers all around me, peering at a mountain of broccoli from every angle, holding their faces up close to bags of grapes, looking first at one bag, then another.

They’ll be sorry when I’m gone. You know that feeling: you’re home sick and you feel the weight of things undone while the world keeps happily spinning by, none the worse for you taking time out.
For sure, it was only a sore throat that lingered and turned into a persistent cough that started keeping me up at night. I stayed home one day only because I couldn’t talk. I don’t like anything that holds me back.

But you could take it in here, like this. I was talking to a seamstress and she was resisting my request to alter a blouse.
“It’s not going to work,” she insisted. I countered with the option of trying to remove just one inch at the shoulders instead of the two inches I had originally wanted.
Then her objections turned to the ruffles. But enough details.
She did consent to try the alterations, but only after I confessed that I, too, know how to sew, but my sewing machine had just stopped working.

As I sit at my desk every day, I hear the hubbub of staff voices rising as sales calls are made. Telephones ring and work talk ensues. There is the sound of the front door buzzer as customers come and go. This noise lives in the background most of the time. But one day, not too long ago, there was the distinctive sound of added commotion in our front reception area. Then someone started to play guitar and voices filled the building singing, “We want to wish you a Merry Christmas.” In February.

Perhaps it was a silly conversation. We were talking about what the best course of action would be if one became the recipient of $50 million. What emerged was a list of what we commonly consider to be millionaires’ hobbies: hunting rare species, eating foie gras, and perhaps living in a home that is the size of this small town. We could drive the most outrageously-expensive vehicle and ignore almost everyone.
Speaking of this small town, we could buy up the entire Main Street and follow our own vision entirely.

There are many reasons why it is good to get away. But as I prepared for a two-week holiday, even the words “get away” seemed to imply that I was planning something closer to a jail break or a bank heist.
The desperate putting-things-in-order, tying-up-loose-ends, reassigning-of-responsibilities that takes place during the few days before you “get away” had it usual effect: I wondered if it was all worth it.

I’ve been listening to the debate regarding proposed legislation that would give police and spies easier access to information about Internet users with great interest.
Bill C-30 has been met with fierce opposition from Internet privacy and civil rights groups, while police argue that current provisions in the Criminal Code are not focused enough to track down child pornographers online.

lsproule@thereview.ca
Perfection. There is nothing that makes me more leery of someone than this resigned, yet proud confession: “Well, I am a bit of a perfectionist.”
Which bit, I always wonder.
Sometimes I think that there really is no such thing as a perfectionist. Instead, there are people who are never happy with anything.

lsproule@thereview.ca
Let’s be honest. There are some days, by 4 p.m., when the only words I hear in my head are: Leave me alone! Those are the days I’ve had enough and it is in this edgy state of mind that I do my grand 60-second commute home around the corner to a partner expecting a pleasant evening in my company.
If only I could find a nice way to say I need a few minutes to recover my sociable self. I am working on just that . . . because I do need more time alone.