Ontario minister of health George Smitherman was seen ambling among the throng pre–Pride. Unlike the last time I saw him – at Woody’s, where he held deep discussions with a young constituent on matters of mutual interest – I carpéd the diem.
- Me
- – Does that ring mean you aren’t single anymore?
- George
- – Oh, I’m always single!
- [Holds out the giant bling, reminiscent of Rufus Wainwright’s brooches, but almond-shaped and gold]
- – I’ve worn this for, oh [exhales], 21 years?
- – Ah. Because I’ve always found you attractive, but when you became minister of health, I figured you’d be too busy.
- – I’m married to my work!
- – Yeah. I’d be the other woman.
- – I’ve got 45 minutes a day to myself!
- – And here we are.
I blink and the minister of health disappears. “He looks a bit drunk. Or high,” I tell my esteemed colleague.
“And fat,” he replies.
“Stocky.”