Sidebar:
I made a wrong turn this morning and found myself stuck behind a garbage truck on a narrow street. I had time to kill so I wasn't overly sad. Somewhat disappointed in myself, yes, but whatever. As I put the car in park to stare at the back of the garbage truck, my disappointment dissipated. In what felt like some sort of Twilight Zone moment, the newly-painted letters on the back of the truck made me question whether I was in fact awake.
G F L
To most west-end residents this wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary. But I'm east-end... like the east-end of Canada... in Halifax.
As an expat who follows this saga with much fervour (up to and including spending the first days of my last 'vacation' home sitting in council chambers), some how a very small link in the Ford Fiasco has made it's way to my own back yard. What to most residents here represents some innocuous change of the garbage-guard, actually has some roots in the ongoing gong-show back home.
Given their business model and bad publicity they have racked up so far, I wonder how they managed to win the contract back here. I now have my own little line of inquiry. Feels good, baby!
I saved the best part for last! I have only called 311 twice in my life. The first time was a month ago, as we found a lost dog. The second time, this evening, because my motherf*cking garbage wasn't picked up.