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imbecile.’”
    I sighed at the deep and insightful analysis of live, unscriptedtelevision. But wait! There was more compelling news to break.
    “Peter, while we have a minute or two to fill, there was a related story on the wire this morning. Apparently, the Sado Masochism Association of Canada, known as SMAC, has just issued a news release naming the Honourable Eric Cameron, the disgraced former Finance Minister, as their Naughty Boy of the Year, bestowed annually on a Canadian who brings honour and glory to what they call the ‘S&M cause.’”
    Muriel just rolled her eyes and shook her head.
    Beside her, an old man, wearing a full suit and cravat, in a wheelchair took great delight in the Cameron story.
    “And long may he spank!” he cackled, his shoulders pumping up and down like pistons.
    I was struck that the Cameron story was still news after so many weeks and so much political drama. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been. The volatile combination of extreme sex and highprofile politicians always made for good ink.
    There was a brief but awkward silence before the news anchor finally found a way of filling the dead air.
    “Well, um, er, our congratulations to Eric Cameron, wherever he may be, on yet another, um, noteworthy distinction.” He then furrowed his brow and nodded his head in sage acknowledgement. Eventually, he looked down, giving us a good view of his growing bald spot and placed his index finger on his earpiece. A moment passed. Composed again, he lifted his eyes once more to the camera. “Well, let’s now go live to Rideau Hall where the Governor General is expected to announce the dissolution of Parliament, sending Canadians back to the polls for the second time in four months.”
    Muriel squeezed my hand as a sombre GG read a very brief statement, lamenting that the House of Commons could not come together to sustain a government and calling an election for Monday, January 27. I did a quick count in my head, arriving at a thirty-one-day campaign, shorter than the standard affair. The GG had invoked a rarely used provision in the Elections Actthat gives her the latitude in extraordinary circumstances to abbreviate the campaign period. Obviously, she considered asking Canadians to endure a second full campaign, so soon after the last one, to be cruel and unusual punishment.
    Shortly thereafter, CBC cut back to regularly scheduled programming.
    “And so it is done,” Muriel intoned as if presiding over a funeral, although a hint of a smile circled, as if seeking clearance to land. “And it certainly adds some drama to our imminent lunch.”
    She reached for my arm to begin the sometimes difficult ascent from her chair to a position somewhere between stooping and standing. It is a cruel coincidence that Muriel Parkinson lives with a disease whose name she shares. Muriel clutched my arm as she performed what she called the Parkinson’s shuffle out to my battered, aging Ford Taurus. The slow but steady progression of her disease meant growing bouts of tremors and shakes, and restricted her to assisted walking only.
    “Just what exactly do you mean, that the election call adds drama to our lunch?” I asked as I eased her into the front seat.
    “I mean I don’t think Angus is inviting us over just to showcase his culinary prowess.”
    “Muriel, stop. There is no way Angus is going to run again. It’s not happening. Being the accidental MP for a few months was a pleasant little distraction but I think his fifteen minutes are up. He as much as told me so last night. And that means I can finally say goodbye to Parliament Hill and good riddance to partisan politics.”
    Muriel just smiled and watched the river as we drove out of Cumberland to the McClintock house. In her lap, her index finger rubbed back and forth against the pad of her thumb, unbidden.
    “Come on, Muriel, you’re supposed to say ‘Yes, of course you’re right, Daniel. Angus has served Cumberland-Prescott well but it’s time