Meanwhile, Chef has been fired, the owner is the new Chef and I know better, the lead server in my absence has quit and filed with WCB, only the dishwasher remains as a friendly face...

I've got to find diamonds, ensure this return is short lived, it's the happiest place in the world but there are better things to be doing.

And the list is growing, things to do before I go, need to organize clothes, toiletries, clean (hahahaha) flat, iron, bring current writing projects, a list of things to accomplish while out of body, out of mind, bills, it's back into the mundane ebb of life. But a damned sight friendlier than Calgary...

An old customer of the Italian Restaurant, used to run a newspaper in Calgary, made a fortune, never read a book in his life. When he sold the paper started a charity to promote literacy.

That's Calgary.

He had his own private room, was gracious in that way that people who get everything for free are gracious, he'd tell you that his business, he bought it, was lucky, the right combination of circumstance, then in the same breath would tell you how smart he was, how, because he had money, he was better than you, his opinions, they were worth more.

At the end, when the restaurant was closing, he didn't get the private room. He didn't tip. He was angry, I understood, his family, son, daughter, after he stormed out they apologized, didn't think to make up the tip. And the last few days he'd call in 5 minutes after his reservation and cancel it. It didn't matter, we had no end to the assholes filling the place up, he was just another one. It's easy to be gracious when your getting your way, when you don't - well, that's the test. And we all kind of liked him, and it was sad to see him go on that note - another entitled asshole, but - well, wasn't my call, and his flag went up.

Anyways, he lives not far from me now, older, in his 80's, and I see him in my rounds. At Beano, on the street. He doesn't see me, I'm careful to stay out of his direct line of sight, don't want to be lured into awkward pleasantries. But he knows. In the cafe, he doesn't see me, doesn't look at me, but you can tell by the way that he moves, looks - sniffs around - there's something - someone - he just can't put his finger on it...

I'm even more invisible in my street clothes than I was in my waiters uniform, it's fun to watch him, subconsciously I've registered, only he can't place me - doesn't even know it's me, just knows something's off, a memory that stings him ...

Want to really understand Brexit? Look no further...

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The madness will end when we run them to the ground with hounds. Really.