Meetings in Chicago

To the Windy City, where I had a number of meetings with various representatives of the Mercantile Bank of Chicago and the Chicago Board of Trade. At issue were figures related to sugar beet futures: to put it bluntly, they had flat-lined. What was going on?

Turns out that both institutions were participating in the current craze affecting American finance -- downsizing everything in sight. The result of all this was the letting go of senior managers (who knew their business) and retaining junior and less costly personnel (who knew squat.) Thus I quickly learned that these these ingenues made no distinction between sugar beets and beets, and this lumping together of two distinct entities had played havoc with the figures. After some heated words, this got straightened out, but still.

Cretins.

I had booked into the Knickerbocker on East Walton Place, and after the meetings, took time to recover from such nonsense and to enjoy a serious vodka gimlet in the Martini Bar. I had travelled with Irving, who was responsible for my security on these jaunts. He was somewhere in the room, just in case. The mad Mullahs are just that. Mad.

"Might I join you?"

I turned around on my bar stool, and there, of all people, stood Stephen Harper.

"Certainly, Prime Minister." Politicians are much more approachable when you have contributed goodly sums to their campaign.

He settled his somewhat bulky frame on the adjacent stool, and said, "Can I order you something?'

"Another Vodka gimlet would do just fine. Grey Goose."

He ordered the gimlet for me, and a Corona for himself. It was interesting to note that he could swan about Chicago without getting so much as a glance of recognition. This was not entirely unexpected. Americans, when they think about Canada, which is not often, think of cold weather and the perils of socialism. That any would recognize the Prime Minister, well, just wouldn't occur.

"What brings you to this fair city?" I began. "

"Just renewing an acquaintance with a number of fellow politicians," he said.

From which I could conclude that the Daly political machine was being consulted. Well, he could do worse. Barack Obama had honed his skills in Chicago.

"One thing, Prime Minister, that I would like to raise -- "

"Now, Lady Simone, let's not get into scrapping The Indian Act again."

"No, although you bloody well should. Can't keep giving people something for nothing. Saps the soul, it does, and drives one to drugs and alcohol. But, no. I am more concerned about those silly attack ads on Michael Ignatieff."

"Don't tell me you financially support him as well?"

"Of course I do. And if I could, I'd also support Giles Duceppe, who I think would run the country rather well were he not, like poor Gloucester in King Lear, tied to the Quebec stake and cannot fly. Jack Layton, of course, would be a politician too far. No, those ads are not only in bad taste, they don't play well in Canada, and, finally, they get the electorate all worried about an election, an election that you know very well won't occur."

The Prime Minister took a sip of his beer, and replied, "And just why won't there be an election?"

"You know very well. Pensions. Some 80 odd MP's would lose their pension benefits if there were an election before 2010, most of them in the Bloc. Hence, no election. So stop the ads."

"I will give it some thought. Oh, and Laureen thanks you for the skirts. They're really made of hemp?"

"You know it."

He rose to leave, and said, "Always a pleasure to talk to you. Although right now, with the economy, things are really difficult."

"Not as difficult as they might be."

"What do you mean?"

"You could be Gordon Brown."