In which your humble narrator's stagecoach journey is interrupted by a royal procession

I stood in the cold and dark, shivering, telling myself that I ought to probably walk to the subway station rather than taking the streetcar. That's what I'd been doing until the weather turned, and it wasn't that horrid out. But the St. Clair streetcar is normally quite fast, and I'd recently been ill, and so I gave in. A distant part of my brain noted the blue flashing lights up ahead, but this was Toronto, a large and relatively civilized urban centre, and there are frequently blue flashing lights that have no impact on my life or travels whatsoever.

At last, the streetcar arrived, and I piled into one of the seats, turning up the volume on my trusty Ministry of Culture. I was so engrossed in listening to Of Montreal and losing a game of Solitaire that I barely noticed that the streetcar had stopped moving. Several people stood up and walked to the front of the car, having an animated discussion with the rather weary looking driver.

"...about 15 minutes," I heard, which is never what you want to hear on public transit. I tugged out one earphone.

"Can you let us out to walk to the subway?" As I mentioned, it wasn't far.

"Can't open the doors," the poor driver said (I realized that he had just been asked this question multiple times). "It's a garish parade of inbred parasitic Nazi-sympathizing douchebags.*"

"We're stranded here until they go by," a woman told me.

"This is the third time it's happened to me tonight," the driver added. "They've got secret service cars and motorcycle cops and it's a mess from here to Weston."

"Jesus," I exclaimed. "Your tax dollars at work!"

"I can't believe they need this many cops," the woman added.

"You know," I said. "At my school, we can't even afford to have textbooks for every kid. And yet we can afford this farce?"

"You'll get no argument from me," she said. "I'm no monarchist. One bulletproof car wouldn't have been enough?" (Monarchists, of course, do not take public transit.)

Just then, the scum-sucking scions of a decaying empire cruised past. You could tell by their hair. We were trapped in a royal traffic jam! I am fairly certain there were inbred idiots in the pissy little backwater where I grew up (you don't need to import them all the way from England) but no one ever halted St. Clair to let them through.

"It's not like anyone's going to take a potshot," I added. "This isn't the 1800s." Unfortunately.

"What do they do exactly? What contribution do they make?" a man asked.

"Nothing," I said, "they just take." My fellow stranded travellers nodded in agreement.

Finally, we were allowed to go. We bid each other a friendly goodnight. I was disgusted at this opulent display, but my heart was warmed by the fiery righteous outrage of the good people of this city.

And that is how I came a stone's throw away from the bloody royals, but was unable to throw a stone.

* I may have taken some liberties, gentle readers, with our good driver's phrasing. He probably just said "it's the Royal Family." But his tone said everything.

In which your humble narrator's stagecoach journey is interrupted by a royal procession

I stood in the cold and dark, shivering, telling myself that I ought to probably walk to the subway station rather than taking the streetcar. That's what I'd been doing until the weather turned, and it wasn't that horrid out. But the St. Clair streetcar is normally quite fast, and I'd recently been ill, and so I gave in. A distant part of my brain noted the blue flashing lights up ahead, but this was Toronto, a large and relatively civilized urban centre, and there are frequently blue flashing lights that have no impact on my life or travels whatsoever.

At last, the streetcar arrived, and I piled into one of the seats, turning up the volume on my trusty Ministry of Culture. I was so engrossed in listening to Of Montreal and losing a game of Solitaire that I barely noticed that the streetcar had stopped moving. Several people stood up and walked to the front of the car, having an animated discussion with the rather weary looking driver.

"...about 15 minutes," I heard, which is never what you want to hear on public transit. I tugged out one earphone.

"Can you let us out to walk to the subway?" As I mentioned, it wasn't far.

"Can't open the doors," the poor driver said (I realized that he had just been asked this question multiple times). "It's a garish parade of inbred parasitic Nazi-sympathizing douchebags.*"

"We're stranded here until they go by," a woman told me.

"This is the third time it's happened to me tonight," the driver added. "They've got secret service cars and motorcycle cops and it's a mess from here to Weston."

"Jesus," I exclaimed. "Your tax dollars at work!"

"I can't believe they need this many cops," the woman added.

"You know," I said. "At my school, we can't even afford to have textbooks for every kid. And yet we can afford this farce?"

"You'll get no argument from me," she said. "I'm no monarchist. One bulletproof car wouldn't have been enough?" (Monarchists, of course, do not take public transit.)

Just then, the scum-sucking scions of a decaying empire cruised past. You could tell by their hair. We were trapped in a royal traffic jam! I am fairly certain there were inbred idiots in the pissy little backwater where I grew up (you don't need to import them all the way from England) but no one ever halted St. Clair to let them through.

"It's not like anyone's going to take a potshot," I added. "This isn't the 1800s." Unfortunately.

"What do they do exactly? What contribution do they make?" a man asked.

"Nothing," I said, "they just take." My fellow stranded travellers nodded in agreement.

Finally, we were allowed to go. We bid each other a friendly goodnight. I was disgusted at this opulent display, but my heart was warmed by the fiery righteous outrage of the good people of this city.

And that is how I came a stone's throw away from the bloody royals, but was unable to throw a stone.

* I may have taken some liberties, gentle readers, with our good driver's phrasing. He probably just said "it's the Royal Family." But his tone said everything.