But, you see, Shakespeare couldn’t possibly have written Shakespeare, ‘cos a glover’s son would have been a drooling country bumpkin without the education to do it. I’m looking forward to Herrn Kreiler’s next two volumes, revealing the identities of the erudite noblemen who wrote the works of  Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson – going by his premise, the offspring of an innkeeper and a shoemaker, respectively, obviously had to be illiterate.

Nor did it ask – and it should have, really – what the hell it is that those dead lay. Eggs? Bathroom tiles? Groundwork?

Whatever it is, we’re looking at a bunch of uncannily industrious corpses, which strikes me as unusual enough to have rated a mention. ‘Cos them regular dead, well, they just lie…

I’m pleased to report that, since moving here, matters have changed. Driving down the highway in spring, you’re almost bound to see a black bear or two dragging their round wooly butts across the road in one big hurry. And on one memorable occasion, a neighbor of my friends (yep, those same friends who tried to show me a bear in the first place) came running over, hollering that we absolutely had to see this. This was a young black bear perched in the neighbor’s cherry tree, stuffing his face with unripe cherries, and pruning the tree to the point of no return while he was at it.

Overall it came to an average of two bears per year, and at a distance, which still was mildly disappointing, because I like bears. They’re funny. Really.

Now, two years ago they logged the forest behind my house (and that particular tale would come under ‘Rants’). The clearcut, which in year zero looked like a nuclear bomb went off, is now buried under new vegetation, most notably a smorgasbord of berries. You can see where this is going, can’t you?

A couple of months ago, I spotted two cubs and a momma bear out there (mercifully my dog never saw them, else she’d have insisted on playing with the cubs). Then I spotted several neighbors armed with air horns – bears don’t care much for nasty noises. Me, I sing, and if you ever heard me sing, you’ll agree that an air horn is dulcet in comparison.

A few days back, singing lustily, I scared up two adolescents and, a little later, a young male. Bears being discerning creatures, they fled with all signs of disgust.

Yesterday I went for a run, meaning I wasn’t singing. I’d just trotted out from the copse that’s the only thing to break up that clearcut, and there she was. Momma bear and the cubs, right by the side of the trail. They were at least as surprised as I, and they promptly took off. At least until momma clocked that they had nowhere to go; less than a hundred yards down the hill is the first line of houses.

So momma comes to a screeching halt, turns around and gets up on her hind legs. About twenty yards from me. So not funny. Note: momma bears are not known for their sense of humor.

The technical term for this is Oh f***! and yes, it definitely was the time for a tactical retreat.

Oh, and no more running in the near future. Still like bears though.

Now, I’ve yet to spot a cougar…

It’s spring. It’s spring, and you renewed the insurance last week. The sun is gleaming on the bay, a gentle breeze fans the waters, and a handful of small, fluffy, white things are drifting across the cerulean vault. Magnificent, you think. Today’s the day!

That’s because you’ve only been riding for two years and have much, much to learn, poor fool!

At least you’re smart enough to opt for the Michelin Man look – leggings and two sweats under the suit (with liner) – for all the good it does. And what the hell, if you don’t take the bike out for a spin, the battery might go flat. So there!

Ten klicks down the road you’re prepared to admit that a flat battery is A Good Thing. Comparatively speaking. ‘Cos, man! It’s freezing! If the helmet didn’t hold your jaw in place, your teeth would be rattling. That’s how cold it is.

But niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!!!

“Jerald took out his father’s service revolver, the one Captain Charlton P. Hayden had shot so many geeks with in good old Nam.”

This insight courtesy of Nora Roberts, Brazen Virtue, p. 230. Latest statistics show that the Vietnamese geek count has been steadily recovering over the past three decades.

Mentioned sewage treatment plants the other day, which must have been prophetic. No such luxury out here, of course. It’s septic systems all round, and seeing as building codes don’t apply outside city limits, many interesting things can happen with the plumbing. For instance, the toilet in my downstairs bathroom originally sat on a 3-inch-dais. When the contractor and I ripped open the floor we figured out why in a hurry: the waste pipe ran uphill.

Now, a couple of months ago, the neighbors had a little trouble with their septic system. It’s got a concrete tank, which cracked. This is Not A Good Thing. In consequence there was merry toing and froing of contractors for about two weeks, and enough pourage of concrete to rebuild the Sydney Opera House.

This morning one of the contractors returned, followed in due course by the truck of a local septic service. Delivering a PortaCabin… Like I said, Oh crap!

Right now they’re dumping another truckload of concrete in there… Want to guess how grateful I am that the neighbors’ property is below mine?

Don’t be fooled by the innocent look. This was taken just before she strolled off to tuck into a pile of you-know-what. To make matters worse, while bears do indeed go potty in the forest, they don’t use toilet paper, no matter what the makers of Charmin’ will tell you. Ahem. The upshot is that, while you’re hiking through a rather pleasant stretch of second-growth forest (creek roaring to your right), you can’t help thinking you’re being pursued by a sewage treatment plant…

Other than that odd olfactory delusion, it was glorious, though. Looks like we finally are sneaking up on spring. After two whopping storms inside a weak, weather’s been beautiful for three days now, and I swear at least ninety new shades of green popped between yesterday and today. Seriously considering discarding the hat for tomorrow’s walk…

Except, the Queen Elizabeth doesn’t sell tickets direct, because they’re strictly rental. Tickets are available from Ticketmaster.ca et. al.

Whose prices start at $97 (for the last row in the gods).

Which makes you wonder about the legality of a civic venue enabling highway robbery.

Before all this happens there is, of course, the ever popular Listen carefully to the following options routine on the phone. Three times over. As the fourth list of options is looming, I switch to the old randomly punch ’0′ or ’9′ routine, since that usually puts you through to a human being. Success! But satisfaction doesn’t last, because the opening gambit of the human being is to try and wheedle me into applying for a BMO Master Card. Uh… no!

The human being accepts this uncomplainingly (yes, I should have smelled a rat right there) and proceeds to book my flight, which works well enough. I even save 25%, because they’ve got a special offer on. Credit card at the ready, we’re waiting to hear the damage on fuel surcharges and taxes.

But no! Though compliant on the issue of the BMO Master Card, the human being (clearly on commission) is determined that I’m going to buy their ludicrously overpriced travel insurance. There are twenty-eight reasons for buying this, the human being informs me and without a hitch commences to recite every single one of them. In that desperate kind of monotone that tells you she’s memorized the entire spiel and there’s somebody listening in who’ll take note of every comma she misses.

Somewhere between Reason #12 and Reason #13 my eyes are starting to cross and my dog is going nuts. Ever seen a mastiff go nuts? The human being hasn’t and can’t be interrupted, let alone stopped, until she lights on the period at the end of Reason #28 some fifteen minutes later.

I’m being stubborn and decline despite the impressive performance, and I can hear she’s miffed. But to show she doesn’t really hold a grudge, she tells me she’ll email me the current travel advisory for my destination country. So we part friends.

A travel advisory for Denmark arrives in due course. I’m flying to Munich, but never mind. It’s good to know that I’ll be avoiding those nasty pickpockets loitering around downtown Kopenhagen…

Imagine you emigrate, and four years later the fiscal authorities of your previous country of residence send you a back tax demand to the tune of damn near £14,000. Accrued over a period of time when you’ve no longer been living (or earning) in their fair realm.

Imagine further that it takes you the best part of nine months, complete with paperwork and bureaucratic suck-up and a vague terror of impending bankruptcy, to whittle down that amount to £0.00. And yes, you have that in writing. Stamped and dated and all: you owe them zip.

And then you get another letter from them, demanding £0.80 in interest on zip.

::headdesk::