Walking on the picket line every day, as I have done for the past week (plus a day during the summer, plus two weeks in June, plus a few more days in May), can be quite an edifying experience. You see, lots of the people there don’t walk at all, they just stand there like candles (as my mom is wont to say when her favourite hockey team, the Vancouver Canucks, have just been scored against) or sometimes sit in lawn chairs that they’ve brought from home. Some saunter up and down the sidewalk every now and then. And some, like me, pace at a fast clip for most of the three hour shift. And when you walk as seriously as I do, you often don’t hear whole conversations that your fellow picketers are having, only little snippets here and there.
And that’s where the learning – or more accurately, the rampant speculation – comes in. It’s SO much fun to imagine what the topics of conversation actually were when you only hear a line or two every few minutes!
I give you a sampling from the past two days:
“And then I peed a little!”
“He said he didn’t want to have sex with me any more, that we needed to take a break.”
“That right there is an argument against losing too much weight.”
“I thought I’d seen her big bum before!”
“You. Are. Dead. To. Me.”
“I could perform a Ukrainian Orthodox ritual on your car, if you want…”
“So what exactly can you do with kale?”
“I looked at her, she looked at me, and then we both burst into tears.”
“You remember the guy – he’s the one who thought he was God’s gift – the real self-centred one – and he wasn’t even that good-looking.”
“I gave them two really nice picture frames from Sears … and two thousand dollars.”