Hockey and Civil War
I'm sitting on the porch, writing and reading and researching the Civil War, and I'm half-listening to the kids argue about Rescue Heroes and firetrucks. I've just given permission for my 10 year old girl to walk to Starbucks with her friend. It's only ten minutes away. But I'm lazy and will probably pay for it by worrying.
As I read and write and think, I hear the dulcet tones of Hockey Night in Canada playing from somewhere, and I guess there's a hockey game on, but this is Ottawa, and we're already through to the next round, aren't we? Tell, you, when there's a game on, you could shoot a cannon down the street without hitting anyone.
Hockey Night in Canada is the only tune Canadian ex-pats could consistly identify and sing when drunk in Japan. I've been reduced to tears by it, arms around friends, staggering through the cobbled streets, hoping that the robataya was open for ONE LAST BEER before moving onto Sunntory We-su-kay.
So, enough of maudlin hockey. Onto the Civil War. This new story? I'm peeing myself laughing already.
As I read and write and think, I hear the dulcet tones of Hockey Night in Canada playing from somewhere, and I guess there's a hockey game on, but this is Ottawa, and we're already through to the next round, aren't we? Tell, you, when there's a game on, you could shoot a cannon down the street without hitting anyone.
Hockey Night in Canada is the only tune Canadian ex-pats could consistly identify and sing when drunk in Japan. I've been reduced to tears by it, arms around friends, staggering through the cobbled streets, hoping that the robataya was open for ONE LAST BEER before moving onto Sunntory We-su-kay.
So, enough of maudlin hockey. Onto the Civil War. This new story? I'm peeing myself laughing already.