Playing Catch-up

An acquaintance of mine, addicted to the art form of the pun, once made the observation that “playing catch-up didn’t cut the mustard” with him. It elicited a collective groan from all within earshot, and naturally I committed it to memory, ready to be trotted out any (and every) time someone mentioned “playing catch-up” in passing conversation. Now it is my turn to play catch-up, as I have not been online for a couple of weeks, due to my semi-annual semi-global transit, this time from Tokyo to Prince Edward Island.

The house and cottage survived the winter, I am glad to say, and shrubs that I have been assured are rhododendrons are in glorious bloom outside the front doors of both edifices.

I’ve been back for a few days, most of which have been chilly and overcast, although I have to say that even that is a pleasure after June in Tokyo, when the temperatures soar well into the nineties (only to be superseded by the humidity and the general atmosphere of unalloyed grouchiness at the prospect of sharing a morning train stuffed with sweaty salarymen). Yesterday the sun poked through for several hours in the afternoon, and my friend Frank Boothroyd called an impromptu meeting of FOG (which I believe is an acronym for Frank’s Old Garage), a loosely-knit association of English car owners from Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley. He wasn’t entirely sure that I passed muster, given that my Mini is made by BMW, a distinctly non-Brit outfit. I assured him that the car was indeed made in England, showed him the underhood manufacturer’s plate, and was thereby granted access to the festivities. Other cars in attendance were a supercharged Jaguar sedan, a Triumph TR-4, an MG-B, a much earlier (and tinier) Mini Cooper, and a sublime fifties’ Austin Healey with a decidedly non-standard Ford V-8 under the hood (sorry, the “bonnet”…). Passersby tooted their horns and waved at the eclectic collection of cars (and owners) gathered in Frank’s side yard, in front of the aforementioned “Old Garage” (in which is housed a vintage Triumph Spitfire in the process of being converted from a 4-cylinder to a 6-cylinder engine, a project that got sidelined while Frank went to El Salvador to teach for a year).

Sometime during the proceedings, my sister Laurie asked me to give her a lift home, and one of the other attendees (also named Laurie, but a male, Laurie being a not-uncommon name up here for members of either sex) offered me the use of his Jag for the ride. As we proceeded back along the rural roads to her house, I turned to her and said “I know you have had this burning question on your mind, one that you were not entirely comfortable in asking me: if one were to floor the go-pedal on a supercharged Jaguar on a country road, how fast could one expect to be going after, say, five seconds?” She gave me a look which suggested that that thought had not been anywhere near the forefront of her mind, and that I must be mistaken, if not outright delusional. With that, I used my right foot to inject a two-dollar splash of high-test gasoline into the willing V-8, and found myself going about 120 (kilometers per hour) down the twisty two-lane in no time. This, I am happy to report, was quite good fun, and accomplished in all of the comfort and style for which Jags are world reknowned.

So today I am in recovery, having sat up long after the FOG gathering dissipated, discussing weighty matters with my sister until the wee small hours of the morning, having brought to resolution such issues as worldwide religious strife, the role of family in modern society, and the elusive nature of romantic love. I drank only Coca-Cola, while she plowed through whatever beer was in the house, and then, for good measure, the better part of a bottle of Chardonnay (a correction: after reading this she emailed me to let me know it was Pinot Grigio; sumimasen deshita). It is not every day, one must remember, that one’s favorite adversary drops by for a powwow. By and large, I think I won the argument, by judgement if not by an outright knockout, but I suspect she thinks that she did (addendum number two, notice how I did not refer to this as a “correction”; as I suspected, she thinks she won, which she let me know in no uncertain terms in the aforementioned email; she is mistaken). Funny how that works.

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