11:55 AM

 High Noon.  I got lots of time.  I’ll drink my coffee and then decide what to eat.

Lots of birds cooing outside the window means birdshit on the car.  I’m parked below the buzzards.

I’ll miss some aspects of my current school.  I won’t miss a lot of the students, I’m sad to say.  All the prepping I do for them is wasted.

Growing up in The 70s, I said.  Before I could finish what I was saying, they laughed.  I found it curious.  Not offended.  Still, it was an omen.  Next day: too old they told me.

At the gate, a stern looking Boguan guy at the school gate.  He’s looking for knife wielding maniacs. A needle in the haystack operation.

I was in Eastern Canada in the 70s and the start of the 80s.  Gagetown, Oromocto and Fredericton.  There was a Saint John’s and a Saint Johns?  Saint John is and Saint John.  One is New Brunswick and another in Newfoundland.  Which was which?

I’m a victim of World War 2.  It changed my parents’ destiny.  They were DPs thrown into a foreign land.  I was born into this morass and I thought I could escape it by going abroad from where my parents settled.  I was an exile by birth who became an expatriate but was really a gypsy, a modern nomad.  I was doomed never to find another person at all like me.