In defiance of American Thanksgiving, here in Canada we had The Grey Cup to occupy ourselves with last Sunday.
Why the football league would choose to play their most important game in November when it’s invariably snowy and well into the minuses, I have no idea, but the geniuses in the back offices obviously thought that made some kind of sense. As it turned out this year the Cup was hosted in Toronto, who apparently have a load of pansy-arse football players who need to play inside. So the frigid weather frosting up the roof outside their swishy dome wasn’t a problem for anyone; not that it would have bothered us anyway, all tucked up by our cozy fireplace.
As something of a sidebar I think it’s fairly amusing that a Toronto newspaper ran a scathing editorial complaining about the influx of Calgarians into their precious city. One of the comments (and I paraphrase as I can’t remember exactly what they said) was ‘smug Calgarians with their perfect mayor’ – too right we are! I guess I’d be pissed too if Nenshi was someone else’s mayor.
Anyway, it’s a great opportunity for a get together with the neighbours. Hubby put together a magnificent spread of all our left-overs which looked surprisingly impressive, and served the dual purpose of making some room in the fridge. The neighbours of course made their own contributions, so the fridge filled right back up after the game. Oh well.
The only slight damper on the event was that the TV had to be on and people kept watching some football match. As a staunch Brit I don’t really get American football; I can’t understand why they run for 3 seconds and then everyone has to stop and regroup. But then I’m not really a follower of proper football (soccer) or cricket either, so I’m not the best person to ask.
Fortunately I wasn’t alone in my disdain for the football. The 7-year old and 4-year old from next door were not particularly interested either. The three of us sat in a corner and they taught me how to play Freeflow. It was so much fun! I downloaded it onto my Kobo, and I am frighteningly addicted. How can I be expected to get up and make food for my children when there are dots to be connected? I’m going to have to start getting people to hide the Kobo and give it back to me at pre-determined times for a firmly regulated period.
It’s a little embarrassing to be the intellectual equal of a 7-year old, but at least he’s a smart one.