I am a writer—a good one. And once upon a time, I just assumed that applied to all types of writing.
I tend to assume a lot of things about my skills and abilities in general. Like that time I took tennis lessons.
I’m a pretty fit and active person, so I just assumed I’d channel my inner Serena Williams and kick ass at it.
It’s that time of year again.
Come tomorrow, as the song goes, I’ll be leaving on a jet plane – travelling from sea unto sea to Nova Scotia for my annual Christmas sojourn home.
It’s not that I don’t want to go home or see my family. Rather, there’s just very little in this world I find more arduous than actually getting there.
I mean, to begin with: airline travel at Christmas. Airline travel is bad enough during any other time of year, fraught with such indignities as,
- Having to remove my belt (which, far from being just a fashion accessory, is actually necessary for keeping my pants up),
- Having my hair patted down for concealed weapons, and,
- The full-body “I-can-see-you-naked” X-ray scanner.
At Christmas, I get to enjoy all of the above and wait in a long-ass line for it at that, as if eagerly claiming a special prize.