The Biggest Swimming Pool in the World

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Superlatives are words used to qualify the absolute top or bottom in quality or quantity. How we enjoy talking about the wealthiest man in the world, the thinnest tablet or the most crooked political leader!

I guess these words were invented to make us forget how common our ordinary lives can be.

As I was discussing superlatives with colleagues, it made me think of something that happened while I was still married.

My wife was born to drive a car. She just loved to take to the road. She used any excuse to jump into the car and travel aimlessly looking for something new to see.

On a nice sunny Sunday afternoon my wife and I decided to take a ride in the countryside.

My wife was at the wheel. Fields, groves and cattle were going by the left and right of the car. I was daydreaming, thinking how great life was and how wonderful it was to be alive.

We came to a village famous for its cheese curds factory and decided to stop and sample the local delicacy.

Cheese curds were invented in Canada in the early 1960s by dairy farmers trying to bypass quota regulations. Easy to make, this fat, salty, slightly processed cheddar cheese quickly became popular and gave birth to the infamous “poutine,” a meal made of cheese and french fries topped with hot gravy.

We bought our cheese and as my wife was admiring the quaint shop, I read a story in the local newspaper about one of the area attractions, “the biggest natural swimming pool in the world.”

As soon as I mentioned it to my wife, she wanted to see it since it was only a few miles away.

We found the “swimming pool” at the end of an unnamed dirt road. The pool was made of three communicating stone basins at the foot of a large rock where a trickle of cold water was flowing from a spring. The bottom of each basin had been painted aquamarine to give the impression of an artificial swimming pool. All in all, the lagoon was much smaller in size than an olympic swimming pool.

It had been a hot summer with less than average rainfall. The stream was not a bubbly jet of water, just a slow dribble. The smallest basin was empty and the deepest contained nothing more than three feet of sticky water, green with algae proliferating under the warm sun.

This did not seem to bother the numerous children who were noisily splashing about in the water while their parents, slumped into lounging chairs around the pool, distractedly kept an eye on their progeny.

I told my wife this seemed to be the perfect place to catch a dermatosis that would make these poor kids’ skin tougher than the hide of Big Joe, the largest alligator of Florida that we had seen near Fort Myers.

With more than one million American Alligators (Alligator mississippiensis) in the world this species is far from being endangered as it haunts the southeastern United States. The word “alligator” is derived from el lagarto (the lizard), the name given to the reptile by the first Spanish explorers.

“You always see the bad side of things! Look at how much fun they’re having!” she said smiling and waving at the children.

At that moment, a man with a worn-out Elvis Presley T-shirt and sporting a dirty pair of khaki shorts with a dangerously open fly came to meet us.

— Welcome to our little paradise on Earth! Are you looking for a place to park your camping trailer?

— Erm... No, we just came to see the biggest swimming pool in the world, I said before being interrupted by my wife.

— Oh! There’s a campground? Can we see it?

— Yes, behind those trees, answered the man pointing towards a thinly-wooded area. I can give you a tour if you want.

— Oh! That would be delightful! Shall we go my darling? said my wife to me as she took the arm of our improvised guide.

Against my will I followed them through an underbrush planted with birch and aspen trees.

A lacing road was forming a loop of the campground. Trailers were parked along the road close to each other, most of them permanently. Some seemed to have been there for decades.

At the centre of the loop, a large porcelain urinal decorated with lights and plastic flowers was acting as a grotto for a statue of the Virgin Mary. The saint was standing in this makeshift shrine with her open arms, looking discouraged as if she declined any responsibility for the compound she found herself in.

Our guide was explaining the intricacies of camping to my wife as she obediently listened and asked questions from time to time. The man was so happy to have found an audience that he was rocking on his heels, a nervous tick that, to my dismay, was causing the broken fly of his shorts to open even more.

He then invited us for coffee in his trailer. My wife accepted although I was not keen on the invitation and we walked towards the fellow’s mobile home.

The trailer looked like our guide: common and unkempt. As the guy started to fight to open the jammed door, the broken fly zipper of his shorts gaped even more and, to my disgust, I saw “Elvis” leaving the building.

I had had enough. I took my wife by the arm, thanked our host and, pretending we had a long ride home we left this place where I had seen everything I wished I had never seen.

Swimming pools have been popular since antiquity, the oldest one was found in Sindh, Pakistan. In England, public swimming pools appeared in the mid-19th century. However, nobody has ever boasted of having the emptiest swimming pool in the world.

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Mexican Rabbits

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My wife and I had been separated for about two months and I was living in an unremarkable and noisy bachelor apartment in a depressing neighbourhood.

There were about 40 apartments in the building where I was. My neighbours directly above me – a young Mexican couple, the Conejos – were polite and spoke in a nasal Spanish gibberish which I could not understand at all.

One night around 11:00, I was sleeping on the couch when their relentless lovemaking woke me up.

“Ain’t love great when it’s well made,” I thought, annoyed by their indecent sighs.

I tried in vain to get back to sleep. After awhile I decided to go out to read in a café until my neighbours’ Mexican hormones calmed down.

There was a coffee shop a short 20 minutes walk away. It was one of those franchised chains lit by crude fluorescent lights where young people in ill-fitting uniforms served the dark beverage in paper cups. It was open all night and smokers were relegated to a packed glass-enclosed room while the rest of the restaurant was empty.

One would think that following the smoking ban in public places coffee shops would have lost all their clientele as coffee without cigarettes is just not the same thing. I guess people are quick to give up life’s simple pleasures. Many thanks to Zebra Jay for the photo.

I entered the cramped smoking room with a coffee and a copy of Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf, hoping that the Swiss-German author’s eastern wisdom would help me forget the emptiness I felt.

Sitting at a table for four, two girls were talking.

— A funny thing happened to me at work, one of the girls said. After my shift, while I was changing in the backroom, Jason snuck in and took me from behind!

— Ah! Ah! That’s typical! scoffed the other one, Jason always does that!

I could not believe my ears. Here I was in a crowded public place and people were actually having this kind of conversation oblivious to their surroundings! I tried to focus on my book, lit another cigarette and took a sip of coffee. I was there to clear my mind after all.

I managed to follow Harry, Steppenwolf’s main character, as he was caught in his personal ontological maze. I had almost forgotten the girls’ obscene conversation when two guys joined them. I did not pay much attention until the girl who was groped by Jason got up to use the ladies’ room.

The two young men and the other girl looked lustily at her leaving.

When she came back, she said:

— So, what were you talking about?

— We were saying your ass looks great in those jeans, said one of the guys.

She immediately responded:

— You know why? It’s because I’m not wearing panties!

Flustered, I went back to my book, lit another cigarette, gulped some lukewarm coffee and really tried hard to think about anything else. Oddly, Tales of Ordinary Madness, Charles Bukowski’s famous short stories collection, came to my mind.

Maybe I needed to meet my Hermine, the Steppenwolf character who helped Harry to come to grip with his situation and learn to enjoy life again.

My predicament was not the same however. I was not depressed nor suicidal, I was only bitterly disappointed that my marriage had failed. And now, because of the Mexican rabbits who lived upstairs and those kids sitting at the coffee shop, I was entertaining lewd thoughts that were rubbing raw my feelings of loneliness.

Rabbits (conejo in Spanish) are not rodents. Rodents have incisors that are continually growing and needing to be ceaselessly worn down. Rabbits have two sets of incisors one behind the other. The female rabbit ovulates by reflex and can give birth to up to 12 kits three times a year.

I did not feel like myself anymore.

Finally the youths got up and left. Relieved, I tried to focus on my book again.

That’s when four ladies in their fifties coming back from bingo sat next to me and passionately discussed the most efficient manner to pleasure themselves with a hand-held shower head.

That was it, I had had enough. I closed my book, put out my cigarette, finished drinking my coffee and left, glad I had not brought a Henry Miller novel instead of Steppenwolf.

:Henry Valentine Miller (1891-1980) was a prolific American author whose books were banned in the United States on the grounds of obscenity until 1961. A couple of years later, western high courts rendered that kind of obscenity obsolete. The times, as the song says, they were a-changing.

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Beware of the dog

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“Fiona! Fiona! Vulcan had a nice big poop!”

Nothing pleased me more than being awakened in the morning by my neighbours, Greg and Fiona, letting the whole neighbourhood know that their dog, Vulcan, a Bernese mountain dog of 100 lbs, could relieve himself.

Life had been good for Fiona and Greg. Both held good jobs: she was a legal secretary and he taught welding at a trade school.

The couple owned a quaint little house in the quiet neighbourhood where I lived. To compensate for the small size of the house, Greg, who was a handyman, built in the back a huge wooden deck surrounded by lattice.

Greg and Fiona were in their forties when their only daughter, Danielle, left to live with her boyfriend.

After her departure, Fiona and Greg were enjoying a warm Saturday evening on the deck when they realized that their home felt empty without their daughter.

“We could get a dog,” said Fiona.

In her mind, she imagined a shih-tzu, a French bulldog or a bichon frisé quietly resting in a wicker basket in the living room or sleeping at the foot of the bed. You can imagine her surprise when, a few days later, Greg showed up after work with a two-month-old Bernese mountain dog. The dog was shy, awkward and needed to be house-broken.

The Bernese mountain dog is a member of the Swiss mountain dog family. Despite his clumsiness, he is loyal and affectionate. Some say that around the mid 20th century, the Bernese mountain dog was mixed with the Newfoundland terrier to make him friendlier. Many thanks to Zebra Jay for the photo.

However, she quickly grew fond of the cute black, brown and white puppy with his long curly hair. Greg took it upon himself to train the animal. Every day he would take him for a long walk and after a few weeks he had managed to teach him to relieve himself elsewhere than on the living room carpet.

They decided to call him Vulcan, the name of the Roman god of fire, volcanoes and metals and patron of blacksmiths, because of his dark black hair. Greg knew firsthand that working with metals will turn you dark as a devil.

Months passed by and Vulcan was becoming an impressive dog who could bark very convincingly (much to the neighbours dismay). He would bark when cats, raccoons and skunks visited the backyard. He would bark at strangers although fortunately he became friendly once he knew them.

During summers there were lots of strangers because Fiona and Greg loved to entertain on their large deck and serve large quantities of barbecued beef and pork ribs with lots of wine and beer.

One weekend in June, Greg invited one of his foreign students and a few other friends for dinner.

Manuel was from Guatemala and was a mechanical engineer whose degree and experience were not recognized in Canada. Since he did not have the money to go back to university and repeat the courses he had taken in Central America, he registered for Greg’s welding classes.

Manuel was thin and in his thirties. He had dark, intense eyes and the proud posture of his Catalan ancestors.

The guests arrived and Vulcan started to bark ferociously only to stop once he realized that neither his territory nor his masters were being threatened.

Fiona brought out beer while Greg grilled the mouth-watering pieces of meat. When the guests sat down to eat their salad – served with lots of ranch dressing – a busy, friendly chatter was going on, jokes were flying between hosts and guests. It was turning out to be an enjoyable evening.

After the meal, Greg picked up his guitar and started to play and sing to liven up the party. Everybody loved his rendering of John Denver’s Leaving on a jet plane. After a few songs, Greg put down his instrument to get another bottle of fine Chilean wine from the cellar.

When he came back, the mood of the party had completely changed.

Manuel had picked up the guitar and was playing a Spanish song, compelling and suggestive. The spellbound audience was listening religiously. Greg sat down, stunned by the mastery of his student. Fiona was sitting by his side, mesmerized.

After Manuel finished playing to loud applause, he excused himself and said he had to go and could not play anymore. He thanked the hosts, said goodbye to the other guests and left, going quietly into the night.

A few days later, Greg was coming back from a long walk with Vulcan. As soon as they were in the house, Vulcan started barking and bolted, knocking over the little mahogany table where Fiona kept her African violets. He ran upstairs and kept barking ferociously in front of the closed bedroom door.

Greg swore at the animal as he removed his shoes. The mahogany table laid in pieces on the living room carpet and the flower pots had shattered in the hallway near the stairs. The huge dog would not stop barking even though Fiona was trying to calm him down.

When Greg arrived at the top of the stairs, he had quite a surprise: in front of the bedroom, he saw Fiona standing helplessly wearing only a camisole, Manuel busy buttoning up his shirt and Vulcan growling menacingly.

Since then, the house was sold but from time to time I see Greg walking Vulcan, alone in the park.

In the ruins of the ancient city of Pompei were found mosaics such as this reproduction bearing the inscription Cave canem, meaning “Beware of the dog.” Pompei was buried under ashes and pumice from the Vesuvius, a nearby volcano, in August 79 AD, after 10 days of celebrations honouring Vulcan. According to the legend, Vulcan caught his wife, Venus, cheating on him with Mars. All the cuckolds of the Roman empire diligently venerated Vulcan whose temples were guarded by dogs. Mosaic and photograph © 2012 Martin Clowes (many thanks!)

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The Eye Exam

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It had to happen. In the last few months I noticed it was getting harder for me to focus when I was proofreading or editing a text. Letters were blurred until I squinted and everything was fine as long as I kept squinting.

One morning my boss called me into her office.

– You have been paying less attention to your work lately. Look at this: those should be curved quotation marks instead of straight ones, and over there, there are two spaces when there should have been only one. Careless mistakes like these could cause our publications to lose credibility. So please try to be more accurate in your work. I’d hate to let an old collaborator like you go. Now get back to work, chop-chop!

I hated it when she used that tone of voice.

Later, I was having lunch with my colleague Aaron and told him about the incident and that my eyesight seemed to be getting worse.

– Ah, he said, don’t worry about it; everybody knows that she’s a kvetch. However, about your vision, I hate to bring this up, but how long ago did your wife leave you?

– About 12 years, but I don’t see what...

– And you’ve been playing solo ever since?

– Well, you know, from time to time I have girlfriends, but still I don’t see what...

– I’m concerned about you my friend, that’s all. Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time alone. You have a fertile imagination and it is not good for a man to take matters in his own hands too much, if you know what I mean...

In the 19th century, any good drugstore would sell devices like these to protect boys and young men against self-indulgence.

I was appalled at what Aaron was suggesting.

– Listen Aaron, I’m not a teenager anymore, I can control myself...

– It’s ok, it’s ok, no need to say more. I don’t want to know the details of your private life but listen to my advice: go out and meet people, mingle. That could help you. In the meantime take an appointment with your eye doctor to try to slow down the loss of your sight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to work.

He got up, I extended my hand to shake his but he ignored it and left.

Two days later, I was in the optometrist’s office, filling in a questionnaire about my medical history while waiting for my turn to see the doctor. I brought back the form to the cute Lebanese receptionist with a loose top that showed her cleavage and I thanked Saint Maron that my eyes were still good enough to enjoy the beauty of nature.

She looked at the card I handed her, scribbled a little bit on it and then asked me:

– Fine, fine, everything looks fine. So what brings you here today?

– Well, I noticed my eyesight getting poorer lately...

– I see, I see... Are you married sir?

– No, not at the moment, but...

– How long have you been single?

– Actually, I’m not single, I’m divorced, and...

She gave me an annoyed look then said:

– How long have you been divorced?

– It’s been about 12 years, but...

– Twelve years? she repeated, and started to scribble briskly. Then she said:

– The doctor will see you shortly. In the meantime, you can look at the frames we have, but please don’t touch anything.

What is surprising in an optician’s showroom is that all the frames look alike. It seems everybody wants to wear the same shape of eyeglasses, to feel part of the crowd, I guess. Curiously, they also all want to be different, unique, rich and famous.

After a few minutes of looking at the frames and feeling the receptionist cautiously watching me, it was my turn to go into the ophthalmologist’s office.

I sat down in the examination chair while the doctor – who looked like an older version of the receptionist, maybe her mother or her aunt, I thought – adjusted the projector that would display the Snellen chart on the wall facing me. Then she moved in front of me, leaning and flashing a small light at my face, she asked me to look at her eyes.

In 1862, Hermann Snellen, a Dutch ophtalmologist, introduced his eponymous chart to measure visual acuity. This chart can be found in every eye doctor office and, according to some sources, since it was made available it has been the most sold poster in North America. Admittedly it looks more professional than a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix saying "I Chew Aluminum Foil."

She had beautiful dark brown eyes.

Then she moved behind me and set the refractor in front of me asking me to place my chin on the chin rest. As she was switching lenses in the apparatus I was now wearing on my face she said:

– I see you have been single for quite awhile...

“I’m not single, I’m divorced,” I replied, slightly annoyed that people could not make the distinction between an old bachelor and a man who has had misfortunes in his marriage.

“Hold still please. Do you see better with this one or that one?” she said, flipping the lenses on the refractor.

A refractor (also called "Phoropter," which is the trademark the manufacturer uses) is an instrument that measures the refractive error in a patient's eyesight and determines the strength of the eyeglasses to be prescribed. If this photo seems blurry, do not worry: you are not spending too much time by yourself. The lack of focus is only due to the photographer's poor skills.

“That one,” I replied.

– Do you spend a lot of time by yourself?

Surprised by the question, I replied:

– Doctor, are you coming on to me?

– No, no. Keep your head still. It’s just a standard question to see if anything in your lifestyle could be altering your vision.

– Well, doctor, I’ve been working as an editor for many years. I spend hours every day in front of a computer monitor or reading printed documents.

– I see, I see. Well, it seems your visual acuity has gone down a little bit. You will need new eyeglasses. My assistant will help you choose new frames. In the meantime, I suggest you vary your activities, maybe increase your social interactions, spend more time with people, entertain at your house, you know...

I was starting to get somewhat irritated by the innuendos but I got up from the chair, thanked the good doctor and reached out to shake her hand but she was busy writing on my file and did not notice my gesture.

Back in the waiting room, the receptionist made me try on several trendy frames but I ended up picking some that were very similar to the style I was already wearing. She said:

– You’re lucky, those kinds of frames are yellow-tagged so they will be free, you will only have to pay for the lenses.

I guessed that “yellow-tagged” meant “out-of-fashion.”

– Your new glasses will be ready in two weeks; will this be cash or charge?

I paid cash and as I was leaving the room, I saw that the receptionist had taken out a box of anti-bacterial towelettes and was wiping the countertop, the door handle, anything I might have touched...

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Heartbreaking News

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Thursday morning, I got up, took a shower, got dressed and went to the kitchen to have breakfast. My girlfriend was frowning in front of her bowl of cereal.

I gave her a peck on the cheek and, as I sat across from her, eating my toast, she continued to stare gloomily.

“What’s the matter hon?” I asked.

She did not answer. I picked the paper from the table and then I understood. On the front page, in bold letters, the headline read:

Canada’s Defence Minister Weds Princess of Persia

Apparently, while my girlfriend and I were sleeping, Peter MacKay, a man of action, married his Iranian-born girlfriend, Nazanin Afshin-Jam, in Mexico, land of La Cucaracha.

According to The Hill Times, it is no secret that every woman in Canada, available or not, has been nurturing fantasies about MacKay, the “sexiest male Member of Parliament”. Now their dreams were shattered.

I was aware of my girlfriend’s fantasies but I was not jealous, as long as MacKay did not hang around our house (unless it was to mow the lawn, clean the pool or take out the garbage). Still, because I am a caring man, I felt sorry for my sweetheart.

Peter MacKay, MP for Central-Nova in Nova Scotia, is a man’s man. A lawyer who plays rugby with his buddies, he loves being outdoors and spending time with Jack, his Bernese mountain dog. He hangs out with soldiers who, according to recent news, gladly pick him up with search and rescue helicopters at remote fishing locations in Newfoundland.

As Minister of National Defence and former Minister of Foreign Affairs, two of the most powerful Federal Cabinet positions, Peter MacKay commands respect.

In the past, he was associated with powerful and beautiful women such as the former United States Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and Belinda Stronach, daughter of the owner of Canada’s largest automobile parts manufacturer.

Belinda Stronach and Peter MacKay were elected as Conservative Party of Canada candidates. In 2005, just before the Liberal government faced a confidence vote, Stronach defected to the Liberals. This move helped keep the Liberal minority government in power for a few more months. MacKay, a staunch Conservative, had only a few hours notification. He was appalled.

MacKay was left heartbroken and sore after this unforeseen turn of events. The next day, he was photographed at home in Nova Scotia with his dog, his most loyal friend.

But let bygones be bygones. Now Mr. MacKay has a new wife and a smart one at that. Nazanin Afshin-Jam holds a degree in International Relations and Political Science as well as a Master of International Diplomacy. She also has a heart. She is actively involved in human rights issues and successfully campaigned for the release and exoneration of a young Iranian woman accused of stabbing the aggressor who tried to rape her. She is an actress, a model, a singer and, not to forget, a former Miss Canada World.

I am also told that she is a licensed pilot. If she ever learns to fly a Sea King helicopter, all Canadian taxpayers will feel the utmost gratitude towards her.

The Sikorsky S-61 Sea King helicopter was designed in the late 1950's primarily for anti-submarine warfare. It was later found to be quite suitable for Search and Rescue (SAR) operations. Image: Tom Curtis / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My girlfriend was heartbroken and I felt compassion for her as I left for work. She was so devastated that she took the day off.

My office was abuzz with the news of the wedding. Women were mourning or just plain furious while men secretly rejoiced that they would no longer have to wonder if their spouse was fantasizing about a Nova Scotia lawyer while they made love.

I called home a couple of times during the day to try to cheer up my girlfriend. She was laconic at the end of the line.

On my way back from a smoke break, a security guard told me that he thought Peter MacKay was a fake.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“When Belinda dumped him, you remember the photo they published of MacKay with his dog?” he said.

“Of course, who doesn’t?” I replied.

“Well, it wasn’t his dog. It was some dog that he borrowed for the occasion because it would be a good photo-op. The whole thing was staged to attract pity for him!”

I went back to my desk, wondering if this was true and, if so, was amazed that someone could be so devious.

At home, I found my girlfriend red-eyed and still in her housecoat. While I was preparing dinner, I noticed the empty cookie dough ice cream container in the trashcan. My throat tightened and tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the pain my girlfriend was going through.

This could not go on, I had to do something.

After dinner, we watched a Seinfeld rerun. Although she let me cuddle with her, she was unable to pay attention to the show. That’s when I decided to intervene.

“You know the photo of Peter MacKay with his dog they published when Belinda Stronach broke up with him?” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she said absent-mindedly.

“Well, I heard today that it wasn’t his dog but somebody else’s that he borrowed because it would make a good picture,” I continued.

Her cheeks flushed and she reacted instantly:

“How can you say such a nasty thing!”

“No, no, I think that was brilliant! And I think he did the same thing with Nazanin, he did not really marry her, he just borrowed her,” I concluded.

She looked at me, tilting her head, puzzled:

“You really think so?”

“Of course! Politics is like show-business. It’s just to produce an effect, to keep people interested, to entertain them to help them forget about the real issues!”

She swung her arms around me and started kissing me frantically.

“Oh you! You! I should have thought about it before! Of course you’re right! You’re always right! I love you so much! Thank you! Thank you!”

At that moment, I knew I was going to get lucky that night and I couldn’t care less if, during our love-making, she was thinking about a dog-loving Nova Scotian rugby player.

While rugby is a violent contact sport played without any protective equipment, it is not the most injury-prone physical activity. Apparently injuries occur more frequently playing basketball, football or bicycling.

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Rola, many thanks for the ideas.

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A Christmas Story

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Two boys listen intently to Santa Claus telling them he is going to break into their house in the middle of the night, raid their refrigerator and leave stuff in their stockings or shoes. If some kids are excited with this concept others rightly question the morality of such a behaviour.

It was the first week of December many years ago, shortly after I was married, and I was sitting on the couch with the lady who would later become my ex-wife.

– I wonder where we should set up the Christmas tree, she said.

– A Chrismas tree? Nobody is putting a dead tree in my living room! I replied.

– We could get an artificial tree, you know...

– A fake dead tree in my living room? Out of the question!

“The will of Woman is the will of God” they say, so I eventually agreed under one condition: I would be the one putting the angel on the top of the tree.

This wish surprised my wife so I told her how the tradition was born to crown a fir tree with this small winged character:

It was a week before Christmas and Santa Claus woke up in a good mood. He went downstairs to make coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster for his breakfast. Then he sat down at the table, picked up the newspaper and started to read the front page:

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer arrested last night after failing breath test”

Not believing his eyes, Santa Claus kept reading and learned that the night before, the head of his reindeer team was taken to the police station with cuffs on his hooves after knocking off four chimneys, starting a fight and refusing to take a Breathalyzer test. He was to be jailed until he could be seen by a judge on December 28.

Santa Claus considered replacing his reindeer with goats following Rudolph’s imprisonment related to drinking issues. However, the goats’ lewd behaviour proved to be a more serious problem and Santa quickly dropped the idea.

Still in shock, Santa discovered on the second page that Legolas and Elrond, the leaders of his elfin crew, were announcing that they were going on strike and would cease to manufacture toys before Christmas. They were denouncing bad working conditions, protesting against unpaid overtime and demanding better benefits.

Santa Claus choked on his coffee and spilled the contents of his mug on the red suit that he was wearing. This was particularly annoying since he had just picked it up from the cleaner the day before.

Santa did not chafe easily but now he was simply furious.

To make matters worse, at that moment, the smoke detector went off: Santa’s toasts were burning!

Quickly he got up, opened the windows to clear the air, all the time fuming and swearing in such an uncivilized manner that I cannot repeat it here.

That is when a tiny angel entered the room with a fir tree under his arm and asked:

– Santa, what do you want me to do with this tree?

“... and that is how this beautiful tradition began,” I explained to my wife who looked at me, stunned, and beginning to regret the vows she had taken...

In my opinion, putting an angel on top of a tree is an efficient way to alleviate one’s Christmas frustrations and is preferable to putting up a Festivus pole (despite the latter “very high strength-to-weight ratio”). Many thanks to Mrs. Boudreault for the photo.

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Merry Christmas to all the readers of Straight from the Bowels.

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The hippie, the network administrator and the Monopoly board...

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Cathy was a short, slim, attractive, 42 year old brunette hippie in glasses who wore funny hats, a bit like Annie Hall.

We hooked up at the students’ pub of the university – where she was taking philosophy classes and I was booking bands – after having a passionate discussion about Arthur Schopenhauer’s values.

I argued that Schopenhauer brought misery to his own life because of his negative frame of mind, she insisted it was impossible because good old Arthur liked poodle dogs.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860) was a German philosopher whose pessimistic approach to life rendered his relationship with humankind difficult. He took solace in the company of poodle dogs. According to some, this led to tensions between the German and the French which provoked some of the bloodiest conflicts of the 19th and 20th centuries in Europe. Image: luigi diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Cathy told me that, several months before, she had separated from her husband of 20 years. Together, they had two beautiful children, a boy, 12, and a girl, 9, who were the sunshine of her life.

However, we live in difficult times. Her ex-husband, Günther, a network administrator, had lost his job with a large computer hardware manufacturer that closed its doors shortly after the technology bubble burst.

He was now working – though for a more frugal income – with a smaller company that maintained data centres for local clients. He worked on call and often had to go on site at any hour of the day or night to fix technical problems.

Because of this, Cathy and Günther agreed to keep living in separate rooms in the family home until they found a purchaser. They would then divvy up the family’s estate to move on with their lives.

I am always impressed when people act in civilized ways despite life’s challenges.

One Wednesday morning after Cathy spent the night at my place, she found out her cell phone battery had run out. I suggested she used my phone to call the nanny at home, inquire about the children and make plans for the day.

After this was done, we had breakfast, grateful that life made our paths cross. Then, I walked her to her car, we kissed tenderly and promised to get in touch and see each other again before the weekend.

On Thursday, Cathy called saying that a cousin invited her and her children to spend a few days at a cottage on the slopes of a trendy ski resort. She would be back by Sunday and would be delighted if we could spend Sunday evening together.

As much as I value the virtue of negating desire, anytime a lovely lady is delighted to spend an evening with me, I am delighted too.

Later that night, I received another phone call:

— “May I speak to Cathy?”

Surprised to hear a man calling for Cathy at my place I asked to whom I was speaking.

— “This is Günther, her husband...”

There is nothing more exciting than receiving a call from your lover’s ex-husband.

A husband whose wife cheats on him is said to be "wearing the horns" because, as a horn-bearing animal does not see the horns on its forehead, the cuckold does not see the infidelity of his mate while it is obvious to all. The shame of wearing the horns is not related to the unfaithfulness of your companion as much as to not knowing what everybody else does. Wearing the horns has always been quite common throughout human history. I've worn them, you probably have as well...

“I would appreciate if you keep away from my wife,” said Günther. “Do you enjoy breaking up couples and messing up their family life? Now, let me speak to Cathy, I know she’s there.”

As confused as I felt, I tried to explain that it was not the way things were, at least that was not the way Cathy explained her marital situation to me. I told him I had no affinity with the traditional backdoor man, in fact I kind of despised weak characters who went after married women.

There was a long silence at the end of the line, then I heard a painful sob: Günther was crying...

— “I know I could have done better,” he said, “I know it’s not a sufficient reason but I can make it up, I... I...” And he began to weep uncontrollably.

It’s always embarrassing to listen to a man cry especially since I felt somewhat responsible for his breakdown, yet I felt helpless.

I tried to explain again that it was an honest mistake on my part, that I would discuss the situation with Cathy next time I’d talk to her...

— “It’s useless,” he said, “without her, my life is over, I’d rather end it...”

Self-pity is the worst companion you can pick: I’ve seen its devastating effects. That’s why I worry when someone talks about hastily ending his or her days, especially when the future of young children is at stake.

So I said:

— “Listen, you’re upset, it’s understandable, but don’t do anything foolish. Let’s talk it out.”

And then, some crazy idea came to my mind:

— “Are you doing anything right now? How about coffee? You know that little café off Main Street? The Bitter Cup? Let’s meet over there in, say, half an hour?”

Günther needed some convincing, but I finally got him to agree. I figured if I could get him up and out of the house to go somewhere else, maybe he would forget about his crazy ideas for awhile.

So we met at the café, he talked for a long time, I listened, and in the end I convinced him to postpone any harsh decision until I talked to Cathy.

Sunday afternoon, Cathy called on her way back to town. After the usual enquiries about the weekend, I said:

— “Cathy, we need to talk about Günther...”

I explained the phone call I got from her husband, the discussion we had, and his frame of mind.

— “The son of a bitch! He had no right to call you! How did he get your number?”

I told her he picked it up from the call display after she called home using my phone.

— “You should never have made me use your phone! What were you thinking? Do you understand what I will have to go through now because of your lack of judgment?”

— “Cathy, I...”

But it was too late, she had already hung up. I called back; her phone was off.

Around supper time, the phone rang; it was Günther.

— “May I speak to Cathy please?”

I told him Cathy wasn’t here.

— “She came in earlier, dropped the kids and left," said Günther. "She was furious and she’s not answering her phone. What happened?”

— “I don’t know, I lied, maybe she didn’t have a good weekend at her cousin’s cottage...”

— “Anyway, I have the kids now and I just got an emergency at one of the data centres. The nanny won’t be here until tomorrow morning. I don’t know what to do.”

I suggested he’d take the kids to relatives, friends or a neighbour.

— “We don’t have any relatives or friends in town and I don’t know any neighbours.”

And then, after a moment, he said:

— “I feel awkward to ask, but could you...”

The idea of babysitting the kids of the man who was cuckolded by me was not appealing, but then, what was I supposed to do given his depressed state of mind?

So I said: “Okay, bring the kids over, I’ll watch them tonight.”

Günther dropped the kids at my apartment.

I made popcorn, got out the Monopoly board, and we played the game of acquiring other people’s property, coveting assets, collecting wages every time we passed “Go”, and sometimes ending up in jail.

I watched the kids fall asleep on the couch and was relieved when Günther came to pick them up at 3:00 AM.

I never heard from Cathy nor Günther again.

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