The Hunting of the Snark

Danny and his wife were my first landlords when I first moved to Ottawa in 1993, following my crazy notion that it would be a good idea to marry someone having known them for six weeks. At that time, I had no idea that my relationship with Danny and Paula would significantly outlast my marriage. 

Having seen to what extent I was incompetent with things like a screwdriver, a light switch and on one memorable occasion the front door, Danny took pity on me and has, essentially, been a source of good will and kindness ever since. There is only one caveat to his goodness. He'll do it; he'll do it well; he'll do it willingly. But you never quite know when he will do it. 

As such, when he said, in May, that he would be round on Monday to replace the outside light (which had rusted in place, meaning we couldn't even change the lightbulb) (or rather, Mrs. Ottawacker couldn't, see paragraph 2), we had a feeling he didn't quite mean the very next Monday. But we didn't like to ask, because, well, you know, he's doing us a massive favour (he has power tools and everything, it's impressive!). But not even I thought he meant a Monday at the arse end of September. 

It comes so you begin to wonder if you have misheard something or even if you have begun to imagine the very existence of the man. He's a little like the Snark. Or is it a Boojum? Anyway, today, out of the blue, up he turned. And then left again, because he hadn't brought his ladder.

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

He's a star and a dear, dear friend. And we really are very, very grateful.