Harry woke up and knew it was going to be a rough day. His knee was a fiery mass of pain, so that meant it was raining, and probably windy too.
Ever since he’d been wounded at The Battle of the Scheldt, the joint had been a more accurate gauge of the weather than most meteorologists.
He pulled his 86-year-old carcass out of bed, and as always, was happy to be alive, even with the pain. Many of his war buddies did not enjoy the same luxury.
As he made breakfast, Harry listened to CBC radio, which he loved, even though it had become a bit intellectually threadbare of late. They were trying to leaven the political-heavy news with a man-on-the-street interview, asking people if they wanted a Christmas election.
Most people were indifferent.
It seemed to Harry that the only people who were reluctant to have an election at Christmas were people in the media and the politicians themselves. If it weren’t for the media’s reluctance, he doubted it would be a story at all.
“Lazy buggers don’t want to work during the holidays,” he muttered, as some asinine politician talked about how cold it would be to campaign in the snow, though winning would make him feel warm.
It was disgraceful, though Harry would never have said anything about it. The party in power was manifestly corrupt, the official opposition were gutless ideologues, and the NDP, whom he’d once supported with enthusiasm, now seemed morally bankrupt, only propping up the government while it could extort what it wanted out of them. He got too angry when he thought about the Bloc, so he didn’t factor them into the equation.
He thought about his best friend, Max, and how he’d died helping clear the Breskens pocket behind the Leopold Canal, and he sighed.
Campaigning in the snow, taking a couple of hours from holiday shopping to vote . . . it seemed like a minimal sacrifice to Harry.