Memory

I went to a party last night. I hate parties.

As I was explaining to friend by email before the event, I can do small talk really well – I just don’t like it. Superficial is easy‎, but why should I care about the superficial? I want meat, not milk. (Sorry about that if you are vegan, but if you look up the reference you’ll understand.)

What’s worse, it was on Parliament Hill. That means it was attended by Members of Parliament and their staffers, to talk about politics. I love political discussion, but Hill parties tend to be hyper partisan.

I went somewhat out of a sense of obligation. It’s a new session of Parliament, the first since the election, and I work in the political realm. It is good to get to know the new MPs and their staff. Plus, I got tasked somehow with providing the food. I understand the importance of being a team player, so I went and I mingled I knew the food was going to be good). Talked to at least a dozen members of Parliament. Probably even more staff members. I probably had about as good a time as I can have at such a function, given that I am a natural introvert who would rather be at home with a book.

One conversation though touched me more deeply than the others. I was talking with a former staff member of the MP who hosted the event, someone who I presume was there for networking purposes. As is usual at such events, I offered my name, and mentioned the name of the Member of Parliament that I am working for.

The man looked at me and said: “Have you always worked on Parliament Hill?”

I have had a varied career, and paid political work is fairly recent, so I admitted, no, I have worked elsewhere. He said my name seemed familiar somehow, what had I done before politics?

There have been a lot of jobs, so I answered his question with a question. “Where do you think you know me from?”

The reply was immediate. “You were on the radio;” he named the station.

It’s been almost a decade. It is nice to still be remembered.

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