PAUL:	Last evening, I attended a ... 
        cultural event, on the fringes 
        of our harbour piers, a book 
        launch, cd release thing.  
        There were introductions, 
        words of thanks and praise, 
        performances, canapes and 
        bonhomie.  Business was 
        conducted, old friends well-
        met, civility king.  It was 
        fun, I had a blast, but 
        eventually it was time to head 
        home out of it.

        The giant Olde Towne clock, 
        witness to history and 
        histrionics, told me it was 
        eleven, the hour that hot dog 
        vendors begin wheeling their 
        carts out of the shadows, 
        wieners still cold, buns not 
        yet green, soda pop warm to 
        the touch.

        Right outside the party, I ran 
        aground the reef of three 
        youths, two of whom were 
        bouncing each other off the 
        walls of Picco’s Lane in a 
        heartwarming, macho tae 
        kwandoo kind of way, obviously 
        celebrating the 50th 
        anniverary of Nfld’s surrender 
        to the Canadians a tad early, 
        while the third rolled a 
        spliff on his knees as the 
        ‘traditional’ stiff 
        Newfoundland breeze blew the 
        ‘stuffing’ all up and down 
        George St.

        “Boys, boys, boys, boys, bays, 
        take ‘er easy, boys, til we 
        has a draw.”
 
        The waning loony moon 
        beckoned, and the tug on the 
        mental sleeve was more than 
        these toughs could handle.

        The charm of the Olde Towne is 
        evident on its boulevards:  
        from gutter to kerb;  atop 
        slatted street benches;  
        clotted in wooly circles round 
        a brown paper bag;  within 
        easy spitting distance of the 
        ornamental fountains;  propped 
        ‘neath eaves and ‘gainst 
        wrought-iron fencing;  
        trampling the ochre-brick 
        roads; rutting with fervour at 
        various shooter bars; cheering 
        the hearts of myriad 
        publicans;  tarrying 
        momentarily on traffic islands 
        for micturition;  ever stogged 
        with the vibrant effluvia of 
        life in the oldest white port 
        of the New World.

        This is St. John’s, this and 
        more.
 

Page 3 of 3	PAULITORIAL - SHOW # 5