Laughing at Canadians

In the evening, once our bags had finally arrived, we went out. There was a comedy night at an ex-hockey stadium; a small room, tucked away within a downtown mall.

The comics were a mixed bag; the host didn't tell any jokes for five minutes, which wasn't a very good strategy, and the first comic was a bit insipid, but it improved as the night went on. There was a Quebecois who was chubby and shouted about burgers, there was a smarmy guy with a moustache, and then there was the main attraction, a hammy guy with straggly grey hair who possibly went on a couple of minutes too long, but did have the experience of working a crowd not to make things feel drawn out.

Afterwards, we went for some poutine, and then some whisky, and we were back before midnight local time, able to muck about with Grand Theft Auto until my wife and the bride-to-be returned from their hen night.

I lied to my wife and told her the bags hadn't been delivered, and might show up tomorrow. I almost persuaded her, until she realised I was wearing different clothes for the first time in three days, at which point she sat on me to teach me a lesson. Because she'd been drinking too, she fell off me, and then fell off a table, and was on the verge of falling off everything else in the apartment before I bundled her into the bed and went to sleep.

Whisky never agrees with me. I woke feeling rancid, and even hotfooting it to the local bread factory for a half dozen croissants didn't really help. We packed up, threw all our gear in the back of the car, and quit Montreal for the countryside.
Now I'm hiding out in the cottage, which is a small house near a river, surrounded by vast amounts of space. They really do have an abundance of space in Canada and not enough people in it; there are more than enough mosquitoes, but they aren't polite maple-leaf flag carrying types, and don't ask permission before they bite you, so I've had all sorts of fun with buzzing insects today. There'll be more concrete in my life soon, I'm sure.