{"id":2768,"date":"2012-12-28T18:22:15","date_gmt":"2012-12-28T23:22:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/?p=2768"},"modified":"2012-12-28T18:22:15","modified_gmt":"2012-12-28T23:22:15","slug":"a-council-christmas-carol-part-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/a-council-christmas-carol-part-2\/","title":{"rendered":"A Council Christmas Carol – Part 2"},"content":{"rendered":"
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STAVE TWO (continued from Part 1).<\/strong><\/p>\n

THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u00a0awoke in the\u00a0dark, late Friday night. Winter days are so short that sometimes it seems a mere moment passes between sunrise and sunset. The day had whizzed by, a flurry of phone calls, reading, emails, walking the dog and shovelling the driveway as the snow continued to fall. By the time Susan came home and we had dinner, I was tired and aching from tossing snow. Sleep came quickly that evening, but didn’t last long.<\/p>\n

Now I was awake, mulling over last night’s events in my head. Looking\u00a0from the\u00a0bed,\u00a0I could scarcely distinguish the\u00a0window from the opaque walls of the bedroom. The heavy clouds dampened the night sky, and not even the moon could pierce them. I could see the digital readout of the alarm clock; its bright red numbers piercing the dark like little demonic digits. Eleven fifty eight.<\/p>\n

Was that correct?<\/em> I’d been asleep for\u00a0only about\u00a0two hours. It felt like more. I saw the display turn over to twelve. Midnight!<\/em>\u00a0I was wide awake and not going to get back to sleep in my state.<\/p>\n

I\u00a0\u00a0scrambled out of bed, and groped\u00a0my way to the window, stepping over the dog asleep at the foot of the bed. It was still\u00a0snowing very hard, and evidently extremely cold. The snow muffled all the sounds; there was no noise of\u00a0cars driving\u00a0to and fro.<\/p>\n

No point waking Susan. I grabbed my housecoat\u00a0from the back of the door, slipped into the hall, and closed the bedroom door. I quietly walked downstairs to the living room, where I could read without disturbing her. I might be able to get 50 or so more pages of the agenda done. Might make a cup of Ovaltine and watch a B flick on TV, too, to help me relax.<\/p>\n

Last night’s ghostly visitation\u00a0bothered\u00a0me exceedingly.\u00a0I kept trying to tell myself it was all a dream, but my mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, \u201cWas it a dream or not?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sat there, in the chair for three quarters of an hour, when\u00a0I remembered, on a sudden, that the ghost had warned\u00a0me of a visitation when the bell tolled one.\u00a0I resolved to\u00a0stay awake until the hour\u00a0had passed. I checked the clock on the cable box. Yes: 12:45 a.m.<\/p>\n

The next 15 minutes\u00a0seemed so long that\u00a0I was more than once convinced\u00a0I must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock turning over to 1:00. But as I watched,\u00a0it moved inexorably from 12:59\u00a0to the next minute. And nothing happened.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe hour itself,\u201d I said triumphantly to myself, \u201cand nothing else!\u201d<\/p>\n

But as I spoke, light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and I found himself face to face with another unearthly visitor. Drat. I hadn’t escaped after all.<\/p>\n

It was a strangely familiar\u00a0figure\u2014 dressed like a child in shorts and a worn blue T-shirt that read “Harper: 2006” in big letters\u00a0– yet he was\u00a0not unlike an adult, just shorter. Around his\u00a0neck was what looked like a mayoral chain of office, polished to a\u00a0lustrous sheen.\u00a0He held a\u00a0gavel in his right hand.<\/p>\n

This\u00a0was not<\/em> his strangest quality. The figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. As if inside this one spirit were many others trying to get out. Slippery bugger, I thought to myself.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you’re back again?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am not!\u201d the spirit answered, “I mean, I am here for the first time. Wooooo….<\/em>”<\/p>\n

The voice was soft and gentle, almost feminine in its thin attempt to sound scary.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo you’re not. I saw you last night,\u201d I replied. “In town hall. You don’t remember?”<\/p>\n

“That wasn’t me. Wooooooo….<\/em>”<\/p>\n

“Yes it was. I recognize you. You just changed clothes. And please stop that moaning. You’ll wake up my wife.”<\/p>\n

The ghost took on a pouty look. \u201cIt wasn’t me. You’ve never seen me before. I am the Ghost of Councils Past.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLong past?\u201d I inquired, observant of its dwarfish stature.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Your<\/em> past.\u201d<\/p>\n

“Look, I know you’re the\u00a0same ghost as yesterday. Come on. You’re not fooling anyone in that outfit. What business brings you here tonight?”.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour welfare!\u201d said the Ghost.<\/p>\n

“Much obliged, but a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. Besides, you’re wearing a Harper T-shirt. We all know what he<\/em> thinks about welfare.”<\/p>\n

\u201cYour reclamation, then. Take heed!\u201d It put out\u00a0a hand and clasped\u00a0me gently by the arm. \u201cRise! and walk with me!\u201d<\/p>\n

“Have you looked outside<\/em>? The weather\u00a0is not exactly suitable for\u00a0pedestrian purpose. The thermometer is a long way below freezing and I’m\u00a0wearing slippers and my housecoat. Besides, my Ovaltine will get cold.”<\/p>\n

The spirit’s grasp, though gentle, was not to be resisted. He walked towards the window, clearly intending to walk through it, dragging me along.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey! I flunked walking through walls classes,\u201d\u00a0I remonstrated, \u201cCan’t we use a door like normal folk?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBear but a touch of my hand there<\/em>,\u201d said the spirit, laying it upon\u00a0my heart, \u201cand you shall\u00a0pass more than this!\u201d<\/p>\n

“Not gas, I hope. I had beans for dinner. Oops<\/em>!”<\/p>\n

As\u00a0my words were spoken,\u00a0we passed through the wall, and stood in a large, empty room, where chairs were arranged\u00a0in neat rows. Several tables had been lined up at the front with chairs facing the soon-to-be audience, with microphones in front of several. Small pieces of cardboard listed the names of those who would sit at the tables. I recognized them from the very first election I had won.<\/p>\n

\u201cGosh!\u201d I said, clasping my hands together, as\u00a0I looked about at. \u201cThe Legion. I made my first public speech in this place. I was but a boy then! Compared to now, that is. This is where the all-candidates meeting is held every election. What memories. Is that where Terry sat?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Spirit gazed upon me mildly, slowly shaking his head. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to my old man\u2019s sense of feeling. I was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air – beer from the adjoining Legion pub, mostly – each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!<\/p>\n

\u201cYour lip is trembling,\u201d said the Ghost. \u201cAnd what is that upon your cheek?\u201d<\/p>\n

I muttered, with an unusual catching in my voice, that it was just a zit; and begged the Ghost to lead me where he would.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou recollect the way?\u201d inquired the Spirit.<\/p>\n

\u201cRemember it!\u201d I cried with fervour; \u201cI could walk it blindfold.\u201d<\/p>\n

We walked to the front of the room, where I gazed over the name tags of all those who ran in that campaign, a decade past. My mind drifted back to the fall of that year, walking door to door, meeting residents, campaigning, handing out pamphlets. And the terrible anxiety, waiting to see the results come in after the polls had closed. I turned and noticed the back rows of chairs were staring to fill with the audience, while others worked their way towards the front.<\/p>\n

\u201cThese are but shadows of the things that have been,\u201d said the Ghost. \u201cThey have no consciousness of us.\u201d<\/p>\n

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came,\u00a0I knew and named\u00a0almost every one.\u00a0My eyes glistened, and\u00a0my heart leapt as they went past!\u00a0I was filled with gladness when\u00a0I heard them give each other ‘good evening’, as they\u00a0settled in.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe\u00a0parking lot\u00a0is not quite deserted,\u201d said the Ghost. \u201cA small group, neglected by the former council, abused by them some might say, gathers outside.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost\u00a0sobbed. The remnants of the Vision 2020 committee. I had sat with them, had brainstormed in their midst, had made presentations to council on the issues that mattered most to us. And had seen my words ignored, my advice given cold shoulder. I knew what anger fermented in these folks’ psyches.\u00a0I had moved on, but they remained mired in their morose\u00a0mood.<\/p>\n

They had left the high-road, a well-remembered lane for me, but clearly one no longer travelled by all. We stood beside them for a while, listening to their low whispers of unrest as they\u00a0huddled around a\u00a0grimy SUV in the parking lot. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up\u00a0in front of council to make a report the term previous.<\/p>\n

We\u00a0went, the Ghost and I, across the lot to stand in front of a small Toyota Matrix in which sat a younger man reading a page in the dying light of evening;\u00a0I almost\u00a0wept to see\u00a0my poor, forgotten self as\u00a0I used to be. So optimistic, so keen, so naive. Well, as much as a former reporter and eternal skeptic can be.<\/p>\n

The Spirit touched\u00a0me on the arm, and pointed to\u00a0my younger self, intent upon memorizing my speech. Suddenly a man, in a sharp suit: wonderfully real and distinct to look at, stood outside the car window.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, it\u2019s the Mayor!\u201d\u00a0I exclaimed in ecstasy. \u201cIt\u2019s dear old honest Terry! One time, when yonder solitary\u00a0wannabe councillor was feeling all alone and confused, he did<\/em> come and give me advice. Buoyed my spirits.\u201d I said. “I never forgot that kindness.”<\/p>\n

To hear me expending all the earnestness of\u00a0my nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see\u00a0my heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to\u00a0my crusty media\u00a0friends, indeed.<\/p>\n

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, \u201cLet us see another sight!\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly,\u00a0my former self\u00a0was not reading now, but sitting in an office crowded with desks, littered with papers, cameras and books.\u00a0A monochrome computer screen was perched in front of me. Outside, through the windows, the world was white and snowy. I looked at the Ghost, who, with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced\u00a0towards the door.<\/p>\n

It opened; and a reporter, much younger than the man\u00a0seated in\u00a0the office, came darting in, and, shrugging off his coat, put his camera on\u00a0a desk with a thud, and\u00a0raised a fist into the air.\u00a0\u201cYeee-ah! We got ’em.\u201d<\/p>\n

My younger self looked up from the editorial desk, questioningly. “Got whom, young Jimmy Olsen wannabe?”<\/p>\n

\u201cWhom? Geez, do you read grammar books in your sleep? You nerd!” said the younger man, clapping his hands, and bending down to laugh. \u201cI brought home the bacon! My FOI requests are here! Santa came early!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHere, on this night so close to Christmas?\u201d I returned. “What powers do you have to compel municipal staff to work on your behalf this late in the season? I suspect the dark arts at play.”<\/p>\n

\u201cYes!\u201d said the reporter, brimful of glee, waving a fistful of papers. \u201cHere for us to dissect and hang them all in this edition. Give me an hour and I’ll have a story that tears down the walls of this sleepy town. Those bastards will strangle democracy no more, once I have finished with them! We’re going to\u00a0have the merriest time in all the world.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are quite a reporter,\u201d exclaimed\u00a0my editorial self.”A real scoop for us. But I wonder….”<\/p>\n

The reporter halted his furious typing and looked up from the computer screen. “Wonder, Obi Wan?”<\/p>\n

“Well, it’s Christmas after all. How will we finish\u00a0remaking the front page\u00a0in time to make it to the pub before closing?”<\/p>\n

Suddenly,\u00a0a terrible voice cried from the\u00a0corner office, \u201cBring\u00a0me the front page. Now!\u201d and in the\u00a0doorway appeared the\u00a0publisher himself, a young but curiously gnarled man who glared on\u00a0the editor\u00a0with a ferocious condescension. He threw\u00a0my young self\u00a0into a dreadful state of mind by\u00a0waving\u00a0me and\u00a0the reporter into the veriest old well of a shivering office that ever was seen, where the circulation maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes of advertising sales were waxy with cold. He pored over the front page and nodded, tapping the headlines with a crooked finger.<\/p>\n

“Yesssss, my precisoussssss….” he muttered as he traced each\u00a0letter and mouthed the words they made. “Exssssssssssssssssellent…”<\/p>\n

“Uh, wrong tale,” I muttered to the Ghost beside me. But the spirit was already waving his hands at the hunched publisher. “He was a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered, but he had a good taste\u00a0when choosing new\u00a0paint colours.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo he had,\u201d I responded. \u201cAnd almost suffered a union as a result.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe moved on,\u201d said the Ghost. \u201cSo should you. Pay no attention to man in the corner office.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo where was this going?\u201d I asked,\u00a0looking at the scene. But the Ghost merely pointed to the newsroom, where the editor and reporter were back, mulling over the reporter’s stack of Freedom of Information results.<\/p>\n

“See this one?” the reporter pointed to a page on the desk and tapped it thrice. “That’s a conflict of interest, for sure. We’ll nail him with this. Look here, this one shows the cone of silence was drawn down for no good reason! We’ll capture the mayor and maybe the clerk for that faux pas. This is rich stuff!”<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d said my younger self. \u201cBut before we put in another several hours and hold up printing the paper, you have to ask yourself, one thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

“What? Could anything\u00a0be more important than championing the cause of democracy?”<\/p>\n

“A pint of Guinness at the Post.” my editorial self replied. “Or even two, before the night closes and we close up shop for the next few days.”<\/p>\n

The reporter paused to consider the options.Visions of sugarplums danced in his head.<\/p>\n

“Ask yourself,” the editor said. “What would Jimmy Olsen do? I mean, if Superman had taken off and left him alone on Christmas eve with a finished paper and the bars still open for a few hours while Supe\u00a0was busy decimating some super villain far, far away? Besides, the dwarf in the corner office is satisfied. Why tax his brain with something new?”<\/p>\n

“Old Fezziwig likes it, eh?” the reporter rubbed his chin. “Okay.If Fezziwig is happy and the corner office isn’t leaking any noxious fumes from his cogitations, I can let it it simmer until the New Year.\u201d<\/p>\n

My younger self\u00a0laid down\u00a0my pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of three.\u00a0I rubbed\u00a0my hands; adjusted my bowtie, then said, “Then we give the nod to the printer to run the paper, and onwards to the pub!”<\/p>\n

“Right-oh!” replied the plucky reporter, grabbing at his coat and gloves. “Besides, this will really make them boil over when it comes out the day before the mayor’s levee. Why waste it now\u00a0when it would be so much more effective in a week or so?”<\/p>\n

They left the door as the scene faded away.<\/p>\n

\u201cSpirit!\u201d I said as the two vanishedor, \u201cShow me no more! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?\u201d<\/p>\n

The relentless Ghost poked me in the ribs, then slapped my cheek, and said with a clucking voice as he noogied\u00a0my head, “Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.”\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cRemove me!\u201d\u00a0I exclaimed, \u201cI cannot bear it!\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u00a0turned upon the Ghost, and cried, \u201cLeave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly, I\u00a0was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in\u00a0my own bedroom.\u00a0I gave the cat a parting pat,\u00a0and relaxed. I had barely time to reel to bed, before\u00a0I sank into a heavy sleep.<\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

To be continued…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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STAVE TWO (continued from Part 1). THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS. I\u00a0awoke in the\u00a0dark, late Friday night. Winter days are so short that sometimes it seems a mere moment passes between sunrise and sunset. The day had whizzed by, a flurry of phone calls, reading, emails, walking the dog and shovelling the driveway as the snow continued to fall. By the time Susan came home and we had dinner, I was tired and aching from tossing snow. Sleep came quickly that evening, but didn’t last long. Now I was awake, mulling over last night’s events in my head. Looking\u00a0from \u2026…… click below for more \u2193<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[6,8,4,222,223,10,9],"tags":[620,618,140,229],"class_list":["post-2768","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts","category-books","category-collingwood","category-humour","category-literary-pretensions","category-municipal-politics","category-personal-reminiscences","tag-books","tag-collingwood","tag-council","tag-humor"],"a3_pvc":{"activated":true,"total_views":5309,"today_views":0},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2768","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2768"}],"version-history":[{"count":24,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2768\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3244,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2768\/revisions\/3244"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2768"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2768"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ianchadwick.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2768"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}