My Neighbourhood Drug War and the danger of West End streets

A little bit ago, one of the more notorious houses on my street had a bit of a drive-by shooting. Just a bit of one, mind you; no one died, and my motto has always been "I'm not worried unless death is involved," so when a news crew showed up on my doorstep and wanted to talk to me about violence in the West End I responded with nonchalance bordering on naivety.

I maintained that I had lived in the area for about 18 years and I had never feared for my safety, went on a monologue about how nice it is to live here, and encouraged viewers to come on down and tour the neighbourhood.

In which I try to interview a city councillor and spend 5 hours in the hospital instead

Continuing the series on my Increasingly Dangerous Tuesday Activities:

I woke up Tuesday morning and realized I had absolutely no pressing engagements of any kind, so I decided to donate blood. Blood donation can be somewhat of an all-day affair for me, so I try to save it for a day when my schedule is completely clear. 10 minutes after I made my appointment at CBS for noon, I got a call from Harvey Smith, whom I've been hounding all week to give me an interview about eco-friendly house renovations, saying that I could come and interview him at 2pm that day.

A day without pens

On Wednesday, I woke up and realized that today was the day that I could begin registering for courses at the prestigious university I attend. I excitedly logged on to WebAdvisor and prepared myself for the satisfying moment when I could press the ‘register’ button on the three courses I’d picked out almost a month beforehand. And then I remembered that pesky little honours permission form that I have had to fill out 3 times in the past year and a half, and yet always forget I need. Damn that form.

Taturday

My Saturday is a day that most of the world actually refers to as 'Tuesday'. It is the one day of the week when I am basically guaranteed to not have to get up early, not go to work, and definitely not lead a church service followed by a lunch potluck where I spend most of the time trying to think of appropriate questions to ask a pastor from the DR Congo. Ah, Tuesday: a day where I am allowed to do nothing at all*.

Fail.

UW has incredibly generously* granted us Conference-goers money to get to the conference, and are even paying for our registrations. Of course, with the lack of communication between departments, it will be a wonder if I ever get the money for registration.

Dr. M: The cheque they're giving you for the conference doesn't include registration money, but I've arranged for you to get it out of petty cash. We just need to wait for Dr. C to sign to forms, then talk to J.

J: Dr. C has not signed the forms. Come back later.

Dr. C: The forms? I signed them this morning. Why are you talking to me? Dr. M is in charge of this.

J: So now I have magically produced the form that Dr. C signed...some time...somewhere. Just take it down to Finance and they'll give you the cash.

Finance: Where's your receipt?

Me: Oh I haven't paid for it yet. We're paying for it with the petty cash you're going to give us.

Finance: You need a receipt.

Me: Oh alright well then...do you think they give receipts at conference? I'm just going to pay at the door.

Finance: When you pay online they'll mail you one. Then you can come get your cash.

Me: But they said if I give you this form...

Finance: but I can't just give you money. I need a receipt. Why does no one understand this?

Well, then. I guess the worst that could happen is that the UWFA goes on strike, the world falls to shambles, and I don't get my $30 back. Very small price to pay, considering how much it's going to cost the university in painkillers to cover up the splitting headache they'll be dealing with anyway.


*and no, this is not sarcasm. They really have been quite helpful about it.