like sands through the hourglass...

I have to admit that I was VERY tempted, just moments after learning the sensational news of the Stronach defection, to jump onto my computer and write some pithy words about the sudden turning of the tides in the House of Commons, the validation of all our fears that Harper's leadership leaves no room for moderate, so called "Red Tories," and that this has shown that it is a bad time to trigger an election, when so much is uncertain and still at play.

It was after watching my second consecutive hour of Belinda-cam coverage that I decided not to indulge in a cathartic session of political philistinism; the tornado of opinion pieces, soundbytes, accusations of gender discrimination (I'm looking at you Bob Runciman), endless graphics detailing the "latest numbers" (how many ways can you say "it's a tie"?) and other miscellaneous speculations, recriminations, and rhetorical demonstrations (I'm looking at you Liberal Women's Caucus) has swept me much too far from terra firma to make any meaningful judgment; it's all too entertaining to seem real, isn't it?

It should come as no surprise that the phrase "soap opera" has been bandied about the Canadian coverage of the countdown to the budget vote: a high-powered "attractive dipstick," backstabs her lover, arguably also an "attractive dipstick" and then breezes across the dividing line that separates opposition from opposed, sinks into a plush leather chair in the Cabinet boardroom, leaving behind a disenfranchised and embittered ex-boss, widely believed to be the villain in all this (though nobody can pin down exactly why), a heart-broken deputy who needs to take some time to 'heal' on the family farm, and all this capped off by a rousing hero's welcome from the goverment she voted to defeat only a mere week ago. "Like sands through the hourglass...this is the vote of our lives..."

And this is good stuff - too good to ruin with cool and distanced analysis, or sober appraisals of the tactics of all those involved. And there are certainly strategic games being played on all sides, no matter how "betrayed" Mr. Harper may insist he feels, or how "lucky" Mr. Martin believes himself to be, this is one of those strange stories that ultimately illustrates the old saying: you reap what you sow.

But didn't I promise not to write a short thesis on all this stuff at the beginning of this post? Fine, fine... all I will say is that I'll be on a train to Toronto during the budget vote, ensuring I'm a safe distance away from the madness when, one way or another, a major event takes place in Pleasant Valley, and the next plot twist on this soap opera called the House of Commons is revealed.