On a dark and stormy night three months ago, a disembodied voice, like a witch's cackle, came from out of the gloom as I peeked outside our humble abode in the city. It seemed to say, "beware the Ides of March," but I couldn't be sure as my senses were somewhat numbed by the shot of raspberry screech which I always imbibe as a natural sleep aid just before retiring for the night--this was, of course, before Dear Leader Duh-wite's divine inspiration to raise the tax on iceberg ice by 2500%, thereby threatening the supply of my favourite medicinal drink.
Lately, as you may have noticed, blinding storm gusts and wild waves have continuously lashed our strand, frustrating my good intentions to unleash the full force of the black arts on the Liberal demons in the dark castle on the hill. The last 100 desperate days of March dragged their glacial chills into June. A mini ice-age has gripped our wind-swept land, thus ensuring the cancellation of April showers and May flowers.
Eternal March! Very bad! I tweeted.
The Donald (Trump) rubbed salt into the wound ...Your PM believes in climate change. Turn icebergs into water! Tax that! he tweeted from #realdonaldtrump at two in the morning. I get such tweets all the time from mini-Trumps in Confederation Building.
We've got our eye on you, tweeted Big Eddie recently. We've just disappeared Bern Coffey and Randy Simms (RS from MP-HaHa)! Beware! He posted ominously from #reabigeddie. How about we stuff you down a crevasse on the South Side Hills, he tweeted just last week.
Big Eddie was referring of course, to a recent report that scientists at the University had observed the formation of glaciers on the hills overlooking the harbor as well as another ice sheet covering the Bally Haly Golf Club. All of this has hindered my pursuit of the elusive Hamamelis virginiana, alias witch-hazel. Being in winter slumber, the tree is without its identifying leaves making it impossible to distinguish the witch-hazel from the common white birch. Unfortunately, I was forced to temporarily abandon my quest for a magic wand.
That did not mean I had abandoned the cause. Just two weeks ago, through various secret spells chanted over several bottles of Fifty Shades of Bay, I cast a very effective curse on the Liberal Party. Their poll numbers immediately took a nose-dive. Dear Leader, Duh-wite emerged once again as the most reviled premier in the entire country. "The whole gang is fading into oblivion," I shouted joyously to better-half.
"Double, double, toil and trouble," she observed sarcastically.
But, I knew this success might be fleeting as voters are always susceptible to political skulduggery. I would likely have to bring out the big guns later on, when, and if, summer came.
Lest I seem too pessimistic, summer made a dead-of-night appearance just a few days ago.
I remember it clearly. It was precisely 3.46 am when I awoke in my fleece-lined underwear. The burlap quilt covering better-half and I, felt as warm and cozy as eiderdown. The chill of the bedroom had softened. An expectant silence reigned over the city. Suddenly, an unkindness of raucous Ravens began a riotous party up on Ridge Road. What were they celebrating? I wondered. Were they laughing at city council's new strategy to outwit them on garbage day?
Then continuous soft moans, like the siren calls of the mermaids off Quidi Vidi Gut, rose and fell from the twisted window sill above by head. I shook off the night vapours, assuming at first that better-half was whispering in my ear. her peaceful snoring soon put that fantasy to rest. At that moment, I realized it was a mild southerly breeze whistling around the broken sash, reminding me of the melodies of the trade winds and the torpor of the tepid tropics.
"Wake up!" I shouted to spouse, "Summer arrived four minutes ago. I must be off to Virginia Waters to search for the wily witch-hazel."
Now, I know you are losing it," she said. "Go back to sleep. I'll phone your psychiatrist in the morning."