Doing the Diplomatic Circuit
This morning, as I was staring out the window, I noticed that car again, the black sedan (I use the word sedan without knowing what a sedan is, of course, not being a car person) with telltale diplomatic license plates parked outside the low-rise apartment building across the street.
It’s not what one would call upscale by any definition of Ottawa, the building, I mean (although the car probably isn’t as sleek as what Stephen Harper is being driven around in these days, either) so the car definitely looks out of place parked outside it, especially given the chauffeur.
I only recently started paying attention, although it’s been going on for a while, but the chauffeur pulls up somewhere around 9:30, then sits and waits, usually for about 1/2 hour to an hour. He’s a tall brown fellow with a pencil moustache, smokes, and today I realized he was looking back at me through my living room window.
Together, we waited.
At about 9:45, his boss came out of the building. He had a bag of some kind that needed to go in the trunk, but he was holding it up to check if it was leaking, so it may have been food.
A doggie bag, as it were.
Then they both stood outside the car smoking and staring over at me in my living room.
I’m pretty sure the diplomat tested out a little wave, so I tested out a little wave back. But he may just have been gesturing. If he was, I hope he didn’t catch my little wave. That would be embarrassing for both of us.
I find diplomats vaguely repellent, a rung down from politicians, if you can believe it. Any man who chooses a profession that leaves him immune from prosecution should not be trusted.
But that’s just the Northern Ontario in me, I guess. I’ve had the ooglie heebie jeebies ever since I moved to Ottawa (Parliament Hill) from Toronto, where I only had the heebie jeebies (Queen’s Park).
Anyway, to test my theory that they were watching me, I went upstairs (with my cell phone) to peek out the window from behind a curtain. But then I decided to take a chance and snap a picture of them with my Koodo. Of course, it’s a shitty picture because it was taken through an upstairs window with a cell phone, and now I have a funny feeling they were discussing parking elsewhere in future.
I really am terrible at spying. I mean, how is going to another window testing a theory that you’re being watched, anyway? Good grief, Sooey, get a job already. They were probably be cracking jokes about Gladys Kravitz dampening the ol’ mojo down at the diplomat watering hole.
But until someone gives me a job, Gladys it is.
Anyway, buddy diplomat is a shorter gentleman of middle age with glasses, male pattern balding, also brown, a little paunchy (the chauffeur is thin and younger). He looks like you’d imagine a corrupt diplomat from a warmer climate would look, although I have no idea what I mean by corrupt.
The chauffeur looks like an easy going guy with an easy going gig. Seriously, I should have his job.
The residents of the apartment building across from me look to be mostly newly arrived to Ottawa from parts outside of Canada. For a while there was a family of what appeared to be hillbillies from the Ozark Mountains, but they may just have been from Cornwall or Prescott or one of those eastern Ontario towns where children still fall through the cracks.
And land in pedophile rings. Sort of like how it is in England, except the abusers are the same class as the abused, and not in Cabinet (at least, as far as we know) or on television or, last but not least, members of a Royal family.
Ugh. I was just reminded of Stephen Harper slapping Royal in front of all our egalitarian names to make us less Bob and Doug Mackenzie and more Percy Hogsbottom the T’ird.
But is it any wonder that rich pedophiles run amok in a society famous for “children should be seen and not heard” (the original old Englysch sawe is: “A mayde schuld be seen, but not herd”) and that clings to a class system that insulates the wealthy and exposes the underprivileged?
Of course I’m concerned about what’s going on across the street. The apartment building is full of children and single mothers, who may or may not have sketchy status here in Canada, but who certainly wouldn’t be as up on their rights as they need to be.
Not with our Public Safety minister.
None of us have anywhere near the rights of diplomats, of course, who are immune from responsibility for their actions for some reason that really isn’t clear to me, seeing as they’re almost exclusively men, and from countries where women and children most likely have way fewer rights than Feminists have won for us here.
But the diplomat may just be having a regular old affair with another consenting adult, right? In any case, he doesn’t appear to be going out of his way to hide his activities, right? I mean, surely he’s been briefed about no means no and kids are off limits and, well, you know, women and children have rights in Canada, right?
Here’s the thing, our “government” (I hate calling it that because the Harper CPC didn’t win the election, it cheated its way into power) knows, or should, that terrible abuses of power have been going on in England, that they’ve been perpetrated against poor children by rich men, and that they involve the highest ranking gentlemen of British society, in particular, British Conservative society, including Royals. Meanwhile, we have Conservative politicians right here in Canada who are so enamoured of all things Royal that they’re slapping it on all our institutions. And they’re so enamoured of all things rich and male that they’ve based our immigration policy on it.
There’s something we should all be recognizing as inherently wrong with a government in a country like Canada, a democracy divorced from the class system of England, that believes rich people are preferable to poor people because rich people have lots of money and poor people don’t, that money equals a moral good.
I mean, given the facts that are coming to light in Jolly Old about rich pedophiles and Royals from hither and yon raping and murdering the poor children of England and Conservative politicians in present day government, themselves from that insulated upper crust, doing their damnedest to cover their tracks and prevent the whole ring from being exposed.
“Give me your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
But you can keep your rich men, thanks.