MY FRIEND PATSY

was my sister.  She was a year and a bit older than I, but she died a few years ago and I caught up.

We grew up in a little town in Ontario, the inaugural home of the Mariposa Folk Festival.  Dad was adamant that we stay away from those going-ons as he called them.  Patsy and I weren't too sure what he meant so we went downtown to find out.  It was absolutely glorious.  There were masses of people roaming up and down the main street, cars too.  They were mostly convertibles filled with very interesting people of every description.  Some had big wild bushy hair festooned with feathers and what looked like jewels, some more modest but with painted faces.  We had never seen anything like it in good old staid Orillia where you couldn't even wear shorts downtown or face getting arrested.  If these were going-ons, we wanted to get going.

The Festival took place over a weekend, from my recollection, but the talk about it lasted quite a bit longer.  We heard Dad tell Mom that he had heard that several young women in town had likely been impregnated in the field opposite the Schmidt farm where some of the Festival festivities were being held.  Patsy and I weren't too sure what impregnated meant but it sounded dire, according to Dad.  We were young but not yet women, so we thought we'd be alright.

The biggest affront to the town was to the Samuel de Champlain monument which had been standing in Couchiching Park for many years.  Some rogue had placed a bottle of beer in old Champlain's hand.  There was quite the uproar about that deed.  Why, I do not know.  Dad always had a bottle of beer in his hand.

Patsy had a friend, Carol, who lived across the street from us.  Carol didn't care much for me but I was often with Patsy so she put up with me.  Carol's Mom, Dot, was a bit of a gadabout.   She dressed up in outfits of many colours, all with matching high heeled shoes.  With her blue dress, she wore the blue shoes, with her purple dress, she wore the purple shoes, and so on.  Patsy, Carol, and I would parade around Carol's house in the many coloured shoes when Dot was out.  It was so much fun, clumping around in those beautiful shoes, although they were too big of course.

Mom didn't have much good to say about Dot.  I heard her tell Dad that Dot ran around on Aiden, her husband, but I'd never seen Dot running, certainly not in those high heeled shoes.

Patsy and I got a paper route together.  We talked Dad into it and it wasn't easy.  He said two twerps like us had no right to be paper girls, and he was right.  We were the worst.  We left the papers outside in the rain.  We threw away the wettest ones.  We didn't deliver the dry ones to anyone we didn't like.  When we collected the money, and some of them wouldn't pay because they hadn't received all the papers, we spent it at the Dairy Queen. We were fired eventually and we were glad, although Dad was a bit mad about the whole thing, and nagged about it for many weeks, or was it months.

Patsy, Carol and I went to high school together.  One of us had been in the speeder class and therefore was one year ahead.  It must've been me because I was younger and we three attended high school the same year.  Carol and I were in the same class because we both wanted to type our way into a career in an office.  Patsy took another class.  She had no interest in typing.  Carol and I hung around together between classes.  She put up with me because no one else liked her.  I was better than nothing.

We all grew up, as people tend to do.  I got a job at an insurance agency in town.  Patsy, I believe, worked across the street at the Fish and Chip place, and Carol managed to obtain a clerk job at a somewhat posh dress shop a block away on the main street.  I kept to insurance for the rest of my working life, Carol remained interested in beautiful clothes, but Patsy changed direction and began to run a Dry Cleaning outfit in town.  She did well there and organized the business into a prosperous, well-run one.  Patsy had always been a bit bossy as a child so that held her in good stead in the Dry Cleaning business.

Being young women, the three of us started to cast our eyes around for young men.  Slim pickings in Orillia until two handsome mounties came on the scene.  They lived in a flat upstairs from the insurance agency where I worked so I had ready access to them.  Nothing came of that access, but we did become friends.  A few years later, I moved to the city and started a new life there and never looked back to good old Orillia.  Carol married some unsuspecting individual but it didn't last.  Patsy was the lucky one of we three.  She met a handsome bus driver in town and eventually they married and lived happily ever after.  One out of three isn't bad. 

MY FRIEND BILL

is nuts.  We met years ago in our early twenties, Bill younger than I, as he mentioned ad nauseam over the many years of our friendship.  I even have it in writing.  One birthday card said "Happy Birthday.  How do  you think I feel having a friend as old as you?"

Government insurance came to British Columbia and that is where Bill and I met, a bunch of us milling around in the Personnel department where duties were being explained about the new car insurance system and suitable departments for each and everyone of us.  Tall, dark and handsome Bill was not, but he was tall and talked to all and sundry without restraint.  I was shy and wished I could be like him.  Perhaps that is why I let a touch of meanness enter my comment about Bill's looks.  Bill was tall, blonde and handsome and I should've said so up front.  We were assigned to the same department, Underwriting, and spent months on end reading and re-reading the new Autoplan manual, a dry read of course;  insurance isn't that exciting at the best of times.

To while away our empty days, we scrambled to take more than our turn making big vats of coffee for the entire floor.  It was a big floor in the Royal Centre skyscraper and it contained a lot of people.  Into the big floor, filled with dry and dusty people, the remnants of their previous employment in the grimness of private insurance, flew a bird of paradise in the form of my soon-to-be friend, Bill.

Bill entertained some of us by drawing cartoon-like sketches of us which we enjoyed very much.  He had a gift.  Years later after he left insurance, he attended Arts School in Alberta.  My bird had flown.

I like clothes because I had none growing up.  The first one up in the morning, dressed with the best of what was available.  I've always liked to sleep in.  Bill also liked good clothes.  Price was no object and he had an elegant look whatever the type of garb.  He had the best jeans, expensive and cut to perfection, lovely jackets of many colours, and of course shirts and sweaters to match. Whether dressed in well-cut trousers or the expensive designer jeans, he wore everything with panache.  He looked like a person from the manor born, although I know he wasn't.

Bill was and is very extreme, whether it's eating too much, or not at all, smoking too much, or not at all, having a good time in any situation, no matter how bizarre, or so down in the dumps, you'd think he'd never climb out.  But, he does.  He's like a blazing fire sometimes and then is reduced to a glowing coal.

When Bill's in the eating-too-much phase, he says things like "I bought a big box of cookies and inhaled them when I got home."  When he's in the not-eating-phase, usually after a visit from his mother who has a weight problem, he eats nothing, attends a gym, and the pounds melt away like magic.  It's not magic of course, it's starvation.  Recently, Bill e-mailed my sister about a weight gain he did not like.  He said his stomach looked like a belted marshmallow. 

Bill was always irreverent around the insurance office where we worked.  Most of our co-workers liked it because they were a dull bunch, but my friend Fay didn't like his comment about a lovely sweater she was wearing.  Bill said, "I like that sweater.  It clings to you like a frightened monkey."  I don't think Fay ever got over that comment and started wearing blouses.

Bill was and is a clean freak.  There is no dirt or disorder he cannot handle.  He is German so perhaps that accounts for it.  He lived in a high-rise apartment building in the West End.  If an unexpected visitor rang him from the lobby, he vacuumed his entire flat before they arrived on the 6th floor.

My sister and I took many road trips, while Bill preferred holidays in far, exotic places.  He always stayed at the most expensive hotels and ate the finest foods.  He had a small problem as he got older.  He had a fear of flying.  He convinced his doctor, and I sense nagging helped, to give him some powerful sedatives to take for the to-and-from trip to Brazil where some of his relatives lived.  I hoped they weren't old Nazis but then I didn't like to ask.  Anyway, Bill got on the plane and quaffed down all of the pills with a large brandy.  He almost missed Brazil.

Bill and I and my sister met over the years for certain occasions.  We liked to get together for the Academy Awards and had so much fun trashing the contestants and the guests.  No one's dress, suit, hairdo, or figure were exempt from our caustic comments.  It was so much fun.  New Year's was another event.  None of us had dates, so we met, drank big martinis and whatever food we could scrounge up.  Bill dropped by one Halloween wearing a curly black wig and a big red nose.  He said he was the trick and we were the treats.

So many fun times but I'll never forget Bill's favourite.  We were blasting over the Lion's Gate bridge in Bill's TR something sports car.  He decided to roll the top back which was most inconvenient for me who was riding in the back.  When he looked back and saw me engulfed in the convertible top, he laughed so hard he could barely make it over the bridge to find a place to stop.  He never let me forget that incident although I didn't think it was that funny.

Bill has been painting for years and continues to do so when he gets some inspiration.  We have a couple of his pictures mounted prominently in our dining room where we spend so much time.  My sister and Bill are in contact all the time by e-mail.  I'm not into e-mail but I get to read his funny missives.

So many years have passed and so many memories to relive when the mood takes me.  I found some old cards from Bill, sent over the years, and see that he has continued to harp on my great age.  One example I particularly like, shows a dreadful picture of me ironing, while drinking martinis, wine bottles and full ashtrays strewn around the floor, and his comment in bold letters -- NO MATTER HOW OLD I GET, I'LL NEVER BE AS OLD AS YOU.

He's got that right, of course; I'll probably kill him.  I love Bill.



 








  



  

       

   

RESPITE

"I love that word respite, Bum," said Bear from his sprawling position on his front with his lovely head resting on his front paws.  We were outside in my carport and it was early morning.

"Do you know what that word means, Bear?" asked Bum.

"Indeed I do," responded Bear.  "You know I don't use words I don't know."

"I thought we needed a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant, like the difficulties we had with Story Structure," said Bum.

"So, Bum, you tell me the meaning of respite, just in case I don't know its meaning, even though I told you I know."  Bear looked very annoyed.

"I am sorry, Bear.  That was thoughtless of me and I can only say in my defence that a lot of people, or dogs, don't know that word."

"OK then," said Bear.  "It's nice out here and you can rest your sore leg by sitting on that raised bit in front of your car.  By the way, where is your Silver Saturn?"

"It conked out and we had to buy this Mini as a replacement, and very nice it is, don't you think?"

"Yes, I like the racing stripes and the fog lights, which you've probably not figured out if I know you, and the skylight is a nice touch."

Bum ignored the bit about the fog lights because it is true.

"That's a very small ashtray next to you.  Is that a picture of a goat I see inside it?" asked Bear.

"Yes, it is a small Welsh goat and yes it is a small ashtray because I usually only have one cigarette when I come out here in the morning to place the garbage in the can, spread the recycleds in their various boxes and bags, empty the car ashtray, and check that I have enough cigarettes in the car for the day if I need them when I'm going somewhere.  Is that enough information for you, old nosy one?"

"Yes, that about covers it," said Bear.  He made no mention of my smoking because he knows it annoys me. 

"With my pinched nerve in my back and my sore leg and my inability to walk, I smoke and drink as much as I want, and to hell with it, and the medical profession," said Bum.  She couldn't help feeling familiar annoyance with him as she turned away from him.

"Where are you going?" asked Bear from his prone position.

"For a walk," Bum said succinctly.

"I thought you couldn't walk on that sore leg," said Bear.

"Take note of this date, Bear, November 19, 2019, the day I start walking again.  The other day, the doc said walking would be good for me and I should never have stopped."

"He could've said that months ago, Bum," said Bear in disapproval.

"I agree, Bear, but he said it now, but only after I asked him, for bloody hell's sake, so let's go."

They left the driveway slowly, crossed the street slowly, watching for cars of course, and reached the sidewalk on the other side. 

"How's the leg?" asked Bear.

"Good so far, Bear.  Perhaps the valium I had before I left is helping.  I forgot to take it last night before bed, so I took it this morning," responded Bum.

"Did you bring your little book, like you used to do when we were writing our book, Bum?"

"Yes," said Bum, succinctly.  She loves that word.  Her friend Sandy used it to describe Jackie's writing style when she emailed Jackie yesterday.

They reached the top of the hill where Bum likes to perch and jot down a few thoughts, if she has any.

Bear asked, "How's our blog coming along?"

"Slowly," said Bum.

"Why's that?" asked Bear.

"As you know, Paul set up a blog for me called editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspot.com and placed a lovely picture of you on its front.  My niece, Mara, found the picture for me and it is perfect.  The heading on the blog is Bear With Me, so it is fitting, don't you think?"

"I like it, Bum.  So, did anyone have a gander at it?"

"No," said Bum.  "I tried googling the name several times but it could not be found.  Try the exact spelling, Google told me, but nothing worked.  In desperation, I contacted Paul and he said it's probably because there are no posts on it so search engines are not picking it up."

"So, what did you do, Bum?"

"I posted a note about who I am and how I met you and called you Bear which is an old Celtic word for Artos, which is your real name."

"Did that work?" asked Bear.

"No, so I asked you to post something, which you did, explaining why you call me Bum.  I thought that would do it."

"Did it?" asked Bear.

"No," said Bum succinctly.

"I think you're overusing that word succinct, Bum, just because you like it," said Bear snidely.

"Whatever," said Bum, succinctly,  not that put out.

"So, Bum, whatever did you do, or more likely, what did Paul do?  He was all gung ho to get you a blog which he thought was important to proceed with our book."

"Correct, Bear.  He pinned it to the front of his Facebook with a note to the effect that I was his aunt and had written an unusual book, etc."

"Did that work?" asked Bear.

"A bit, he told me," said Bum.  "He said he got about 23 hits which is more than he usually gets from one of his posts, and it was within a 24 hour period."

"That's very encouraging, Bum," said Bear looking quite pleased.  "Did he get any comments?"

"We got our very first comment, Bear.  It was from a woman called Phyllis; I won't use her last name just in case she is a private person; from Lower Nicola B.C., wherever that is."

"What did she say, Bum?"

"She said, and I quote, she is funny, liked that, and this is  a beautiful dog, of course,"

"What an intelligent and insightful woman, Bum.  I am so pleased she found me beautiful, high praise indeed."

"I too am pleased she found me funny, and you beautiful because you are."

"I'm funny," responded Bear looking a bit disgruntled.

"I know you're funny, Bear.  Who knows better.  But, there are two of us on the blog, so let that be the end of it.  We don't want to bicker over our very first comment, and put Phyllis off making other comments."

"You're right, of course, Bum.  I'm sorry."

"Any other comments on our blog?" Bear continued.  "Surely it deserved more than one."

"As I already told you, there was a problem accessing the blog, and adding posts as suggested by Paul, didn't help.  Paul's wife, Kim, tried to make a comment on one of the posts and that wouldn't work either.  I don't know what the problem is and I'll have to get Paul involved."

"Anyway, because nothing seemed to be working, my sister sent a link to our blog to our old friend, Bill, who lives on the Island.  He wrote back and said, 'having known Jackie for so long but not really knowing her at all, makes the blog so very interesting.  I love it when someone slowly shows a side of themselves that they've kept hidden for so long, unless they're a psychopath.  I wouldn't love that, Ha!'

"He compared you to a psychopath, Bum.  Some friend."

"I don't think he's comparing me to a psychopath, it's just his way of writing."

"He should work on his writing skills," said Bear, "and don't use the word psychopath in a sentence describing you."

"Don't worry about it, Bear.  I have written a piece about him and intend to post it next on our blog.  As a matter of fact, many months ago when Alice Munro won a huge prize for her short stories, I thought I'd try my hand at short stories which I have always loved and read all my life.  I wrote two short stories, intending to call my book My Friends.  The first one was about Bill and the second one about my sister Patsy.  I let my sister read them as I value her opinion.  She said they're not really short stories but rather Profiles.  I looked up profiles on google and they seem to be about famous people.  My friends are not famous, except to me, so I ditched the short story project.  Anyway, I'm going to post them on our blog and you can tell me what you think."

"I look forward to that, Bum.  Supposedly, you were looking around for another project when you finished our book, Right?"

"Right," Bum said succinctly because she still loves that word.

"I have to go home now, Bum.  My master is coming back from his course for a couple of days and will want to take me out walking.  But, before I go, I would like to know what that pervert at the Safeway parking lot said to you."

"Dear Bear.  I have received a number of telephone calls from perverts when I worked at ICBC.  My friends wanted to know what they said.  I said No."

"Perverts were calling ICBC?"  Bear looked incredulous.

"Not everyone calling ICBC was a pervert.  Some of them were calling about insurance.     My recollection of these calls, and the fellow up at Safeway, is that they mostly say the same thing.  Trust me, they are not that creative."

"So what did  he, and them, say?"

"As I told my sister when she asked, and I am telling you now, get your own pervert."



















 

STORY STRUCTURE

"Finally," said Bear to Bum.  "I thought we'd never get back to editing our book."

Bum responded, "It hasn't been that long, Bear.   I've been busy."

"Doing what?" asked Bear in that disapproving tone he sometimes uses.

"I had a lot of medical appointments, as did my sister, and you know I drive her to and fro'.  She no longer drives as she finds it too harrowing."

"Hmm," said Bear and paused for effect.  He likes to do that.  "I noticed you had time to post some items on your new blog, editingwithmyimaginarydog.blogspots.com.  I think the world of bloggery could've waited to hear about that pervert you met at Safeway.  That time should have been used to get on with our editing task.  You lost the Reader's Report, didn't you?"

"I mislaid it, if you must know, but I did find it and now we're ready to proceed."

"You lost it," said Bear in disapproval.

"Hold that thought, Bear.  Something has just come up on the CBC site here on my laptop.  Don Cherry has been fired for inappropriate comments."

"What did he say this time?" queried Bear, looking dismayed by this incident.

"He said something along the line that immigrants take and take from this country and then don't buy a poppy, or something like that.  I guess he noticed that so many people don't wear a poppy and he's right," said Bum.

"I thought we had free speech in this country," retorted Bear.

"Only if everyone agrees with what you've said, apparently," responded Bum.

"Lots of people buy a poppy but the bloody thing falls off, more often than not, according to my master's wife.  She said she paid about three times for a poppy and lost them all.  She was told to stick a piece of rubber from a pencil to the point of the poppy but she couldn't be bothered."

"I had the same problem last year and in desperation purchased a real poppy pin with a good fastener on the back.  That worked well.  This year, I donated and got a poppy, lost it, and then decided to dig out that pin from last year."

"I didn't see you wearing the poppy pin the other day," said Bear.

"I forgot," admitted Bum.

"So, Bum, it sounds like you've lost your memory," said Bear.

"I can't remember," said Bum.

Bear was peering at my laptop and said, "I see the sucky CBC has stepped up to say they respect Sportnet's decision that this is the right time for Don Cherry to step down.  Hockey Night in Canada was a longtime CBC  Saturday night staple, but the show and its games moved to Sportsnet in 2014.  Mr. Cherry made many inappropriate remarks over the years while under CBC's umbrella, but they did nothing.  Mr. Cherry was no doubt making a lot of money for them, much like Jian Ghomeshi."

"I think Mr. Cherry's dismissal is a shame.  Dear old Mom, who is presently dead, always liked Don Cherry.  She also liked Mike Tyson, as I recall.  She liked bad boys, presumably.  Some women do."

"Never mind all that, Bum.  Let's get back to editing our book, using your  nephew's Reader's Report as our guide.  What was the first point?" asked Bear.

"It's called Story Structure," said Bum.

"OK," Bum, "Lay it on me and keep it brief.  You know how you tend to run on sometimes."

Bum gave him a dirty look and started.

"This is the first paragraph Paul wrote under the heading Story Structure
and I quote,  "Janey Lennox, a retiree living in Deep Cove with her sister, goes walking each morning through the neighbourhood.  One morning she encounters a dog that can talk---a Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever---but he can talk only to Janey.  His name is Artos.  Janey enters into an agreement with the dog's owner, a man named Jim, to walk Artos each morning for pay."
.
"Hold it, Bum," said Bear, showing great exasperation.  "I am not a talking dog.  I am your imaginary dog, hence the title of our book.  What was your nephew thinking?  Next he'll be comparing me to Francis the talking mule."

"He does that later in his analysis, Bear, but let me explain something before you blow your top."  Bum held up her hands to hold Bear steady and quiet.

Bear spoke anyway.  "Let me first tell you, Bum, how much I appreciate that you brought me to your home this time.  I know I've been here before but this time seems special."

"You are always in my thoughts, dear Bear.  I can conjure you up anytime and any place."

"I like that word, conjure, Bum; it sounds magical, and our relationship is."

Both of them sat quietly for a bit, thinking loving thoughts about each other, and then spoke in unison.

"Story Structure, where were we?"

"You, Bear, became upset because our editor, Paul, thought you were a talking dog, and then he had the effrontery to compare you to Francis the Talking Mule.  I think that sums up where we were."

"I  suppose he finds you, his beloved aunt in real life, as a fascinating person with the added bonus of having a talking dog who talks only to her."

"Yes, Bear, something like that," said Bum in a somewhat smug way, and even produced a bit of a smirk.  She knew that would get his goat.

"I hope you put Paul straight on that talking dog bullshit," said Bear, still looking annoyed.

"I did, but with my sister's help.  This is what she said, and I copied it into our book.

What if there were another world that I could escape to like Alice down the rabbit hole?  If you believe something enough it can become real. And with this thought, the dog appeared.

"That would be me?" asked Bear.

"Yes, my imaginary dog appeared and we walked on into all the pages of our book."

"What about the talking bit that Paul got wrong?" queried Bear.

"Do you know the Alice in Wonderland story, Bear?"

"My master's daughter read it aloud, and I heard it many years ago.  I have forgotten most of it, I must confess."

 "Ok then, Bear, in Alice's fantasy world a white rabbit came rushing along and she heard him say I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date, and no one reading the book questioned the talking bit.  It was part of the fantasy."

"OK then Bum.  Let's get back to Story Structure.  What did Paul say next?"

"He said we enter into a companionable but also sometimes testy relationship, chatting as we walk each morning.  We give each other nicknames--"Bear" for you and "Bum" for me.  We particularly like to swap stories in which we vent our opinions on all manner of things.  There is a sense that we become each other's closest friends."

"Finally, he got something right," said Bear. 

"Look here, Bear, to give Paul his due respect, he, as a reader questioned the fantasy aspect and I fixed that, so don't go on about it.  If it wasn't clear to him, there was obviously a problem.  He's a good writer himself, a careful reader, and analyzes books of superior quality to ours, on his Facebook."

"OK," said Bear.  "Maybe I was a bit harsh.  So, what else did he say about the structure of our book?"

"Among the things that Janey, the heroine now called Bum, is that she has long considered writing a romance novel, something in the line of the Harlequin Romance or maybe the racier Harlequin Presents, and she shares considerable sections of two romance plots she has in mind."

"That's good Bum.  I remember the Harlequin stories you wrote, and I particularly liked that the heroine in the Harlequin story met the hero at Honey's, the famous donut shop in the Village, and then the Canadian Superstore, of all places."

"Yes, that was fun, wasn't it Bear?  Well, I guess we're finished with Story Structure," said Bum.

"Wait just one minute," said Bear.  "What about the boyfriend?  He's a pretty big part of the structure of the story, integral I would say."

"I forgot.  Sorry.  We meet a neighbour who is a widower and a master gardener, but who never seems to talk.  I expressed interest in getting to know him better and you, dear Bear, became jealous and not fond of this idea.   How's that?"

"That's better," said Bear.  "I think your nephew has covered the salient points regarding structure.  We could've finished this part of the Reader's Report faster if you hadn't lost it."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Bear, I mislaid it.  It was not lost."

Bear responded, "When something is mislaid, it is lost."

Bum responded right back with, "You are a bit of a nag, Bear.  Have I told you that before?"

"Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow, and that would best be me who cares for you.  You lost it.  Why can't you admit it?"

"Bear, if I'd wanted this kind of grief, I would've gotten married."














































   

ET TU, BEAR

"Why the hell are you speaking French?  I could hardly stomach Comment s'il vous plait, and now you're at it again."

"Calm down, Bear, those are the only few French words I know.  No need to go ballistic about them."

"I think you are showing off, Bum, and I don't like it," retorted Bear.

"I am not a show-off, Bear," said Bum, sounding quite put out.

"You show-off every time you show up," said Bear, looking pleased with his comment, and then said "Why are you limping?"

"I've got a pinched nerve in my back and it affects my lower left leg, particularly when I try to walk on it.  Fortunately, I'm OK sitting down," responded Bum.

"Are you seeing a doctor?" asked Bear.

"Of course; I'm not a complete moron," said Bum, again looking put out because Bear seems to think she wouldn't have the brains to seek medical attention.

"So, what is your doctor doing about your pinched nerve?"

"He prescribed these nerve pills, gaba something, which I took for over a month and they did nothing.  They're good for people who have epileptic convulsions or the like, but they did nothing for me."

"OK, so what's the long and short of this sorry tale?" asked Bear.

"I am waiting to be shot by a dermatologist."  Seeing Bear's eyebrows lift in disbelief, I said, "No, of course I mean a radiologist, but I have to wait until next year to get the appointment and the shot in my back, which I've heard works well for a lot of people."

"The medical system has a lot to answer for, don't they Bum?"

"You got that right, Bear.  But, and I know you don't like buts, my right arm became so painful, I had to see the doctor again.  I thought it was another problem with my pinched nerve but it wasn't.  It was a frozen shoulder, just  what I needed right now, and I could not lift my arm above elbow level.

The doctor said I needed pain pills to relieve the frozen shoulder.  I asked him about the opioids in the news, for which everyone seems to be addicted.  They must be good.  He agreed and prescribed enough pills for a week, taken 3 times daily.  The pharmacy would not give me all of them at once, it's against some law, and I would have to return, if needed, for the remainder.  The pills worked almost immediately, so I was pleased.  Although I didn't need the missing 4 pills, I decided to take them to comply with the doctor's wishes, and mine because I hadn't felt that up for a long time.  They didn't help my sore leg but I found I didn't care so much about that."

Bear jumped in here with, "you were high, Bum."

"Enough, Bear, about my medical woes.  I am heartily sick of doctors and specialists and hospitals and their ilk.  They couldn't run a fish and chip shop, in my opinion."
 
"You sound bitter, Bum.  This is so not like you," said Bear, looking somewhat sad and worried.

"Enough, I said, Bear, let's go back to you calling me a show-off.  That hurt my feelings.  It was only a bit of French."

"I'm sorry about that, Bum.  I overreacted; I apologize.  But, and I know you don't like buts any more than I do, I stand by my comment that you show-off when you show up."

"Whatever do you mean, Bear?"

Bear sighed and then began.  "Everything you wear matches.  You give coordination new meaning."

Bum similarly sighed and said, "Lots of people coordinate their outfits,  even the Queen.  When she's out and about, she wears, say a purple dress and over it a matching purple coat.  Another day, another dress of a different colour and a matching coat.  That is her signature look.  So there!"

"I wouldn't compare myself to the Queen, if I were you, Bum.  Anyone less like the Queen and her clothing style, would be you.  Look at that outfit you wore the other day, blue jeans and that long sleeved top with the face on the front.  The top had striped sleeves of different colours circling both arms, and, the piece de resistance, and pardon my French, matched your gloves."

Bum interrupted here.  "As I recall I was wearing black leather gloves, not as matched as you would imply."

Bear sighed again.  He's doing that a lot lately, and then said, "between all fingers of those black leather gloves were different colours of leather, red, blue, and burgundy, all matching the striped sleeves of your top."

"I give, as Mom used to say, I like to be coordinated," said Bum in defeat.

Bear smirked.  He likes to be right, and then proceeded, "and then, you do the opposite."

"Now what?" responded Bum.  "I think we've beaten this subject to death."

"Look at what you're wearing today - red plaid pants and a black shirt with white puffy balls instead of dots, and then, a red wool tie.  It screams, look at me, look at me."

"Perhaps I'm a fashionista, Bear."

"No bloody way," said Bear, "and you don't even know what a fashionista is, do you?"

"Perhaps not," said Bum, and then "and how. pray tell, do you?"

"I hear things, as you well know, Bum."

"I know you want to tell me, Bear, so lay it on me.  Make my day.as Clint Eastwood said in a good movie once."

Bear kept Bum waiting for a bit, to raise her tension.  "A fashionista is a designer of haute couture, that is high fashion clothing.  You've got the haute down pat, Bum, what with those opioids you were taking for your frozen shoulder, but the couture, not so much."

Bum wanted the last word so she said, "au revoir, mon amour."  .