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Mr. Wolf

Sometimes I wonder if my Canadian friends are just fucking with my head. One will be like, “Let’s play, ‘What time is it, Mr. Wolf?’ everybody!” and proceed to lead the kids in a surreal version of Mother, May I which ends in the wolf saying, “LUNCHTIME!” and running after the screeching little kids.

And I’ll have a moment of, “C’mon…really?“

But yes, apparently this is a British game that has been around for a hundred years and probably everybody but me played it during recess. Still. I wonder.

I carry a notebook around with me everywhere I go. One side is for addresses and shopping lists, the other is for things I see, overhear or think about. Paul started getting curious about why I was writing things down last January, when we were eating breakfast out and this woman was telling a fascinating story about why she’d broken up with her girlfriend. I said I was, “writing down something I wanted to remember,” and he seemed satisfied with that.

For example, here are my Mosquito Coast notes for yesterday’s entry:

Now - completely on his own - Paul has begun to carry his own notebook around, in which he writes down the things he wants to remember. Like:

“Bare man! Leaning out window.”

Apparently the man was there all day. The prevailing theory is “photo shoot”.

See, this is why the librarians love me.

I’m not myself today.