Spot the Ball competition, April 7
Sidelined, as I was, with a torn hamstring, sore pelvis and seriously frigged gluteus maximus, the result of an over-energetic free kick (which, as reported exclusively in these pages, sped like an arrow from Robin Hood’s bow into its final resting place in the top corner of the goal), I was unable to take part in the resuscitation of the popular “Spot the Ball” competition, a staple for many years of Littlewoods’ pools, and now revitalized in the ancient suburbs of Ottawa’s Heron Park district.
The rules of the game are simple: it is like a “Where’s Waldo” only without Waldo but with a soccer ball instead. Except, of course, the soccer ball isn’t there. And nor is Waldo. Waldo was never there, that was a metaphor. No it wasn’t. It was a simile. It was like a metaphor, but with a soccer ball. I think.
Today is Day 2 of my Lazarus-like revival. The stone was rolled away from the basement, and out I walked. OOOOOOOOH… I have just realized that this is Easter week. If I had but waited another week or so, I could have re-enacted the entire paschal scene for you. What an idiot – all it needed was a bit more awareness and patience and I could have been the livestreamed re-enactment of the Easter story. I could have knocked Boris off the front pages. Oh well, I suspect it is for the best. Ma vie est peut-être des plus mondaines, mais elle est bien la mienne.
So how did I spend my second day? Feeling pretty crappy, actually. I managed to make a few phone calls, and found my uncle responsive and slightly improved. My aunt is still on the worrying side. And then I sort of started developing a bit of Stockholm Syndrome: I began worrying that, actually, three weeks weren’t enough and I was still going to infect the other Ottawackers; a delivery of alcohol from the ever-excellent Dial-a-Bottle (yes, already) did little to convince me I was reliable, so I returned to the basement for a while. This was not what I expected upon my release. I rather saw myself as a cross (my God, more religious symbolism) between Fathers Ted and Dougal, running through a field singing My Little Horse and wondering which parts of the horse actually were the fetlocks and if perhaps there was a ruder connotation to the song of which I was not yet aware. Alas it has not been so. There is comfort in the darkness of the basement, and it is safe; uncontaminated; danctuary (which started off as a typo but is actually the perfect word).
I ventured out again soon enough but this was a slightly worrying commentary on my mental state. However, by the time Mrs. Ottawacker informed me it was time to prepare dinner for the Ottawacker 3, I was fine again and the crisis had passed. I have no background information about this, nothing to share. I am bloody glad to be out and in the bosom of my family and hope that I will get back to being a productive member of society within the next six months. In the meantime, I have two kidneys and a semi-functioning liver, so when it comes to mortgage payments, I am open to all offers.
One of the things that became clear during the evening meal was that neither Mrs. Ottawacker nor I had managed to think to write to the Easter Bunny over the past couple of months. Fortunately, Ottawacker Jr. managed to remind us of the important visit, and so we are now faced with the daunting task of making an Easter Egg in under a week. Why Is Easter a moveable feast? Asking for a friend. Answers, on a post card please, to the Pascal Le Lapin, La Garenne.
R.I.P. John Prine. Safe travels my friend.