And I'm hangin' around in my old haunts
2002 01 24
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At the corner of King and Caroline there's a doughnut shop; a Tim Hortons. It'd be nothing else in this city, would it? It used to be twentyfour hours, and that's where we'd go after we'd been out to the clubs. Sometimes I think we spent more time hanging out postclub, than we did hanging in the club itself.
There was me, Diane, Tim, and a few others. All regulars of the local clubgoing nights out. Diane and I usually spent our club nights either dancing or talking to our friend the DJ. Tim seemed to spend most them playing pool or trying to hit up on AuPairs and nurses. I think he actually succeeded with the nurses, once.
We were a bit of a noisy group, but never rowdy, unruly, or troublesome. We'd go into the Hortons, order our coffees, and find some spot to sit. We'd talk, talk, drink, and talk. Sometimes ... sometimes we even sang. Mostly the singing was Tim, and he was always singing songs by Lowest of the Low. Can't say we didn't encourage him, because we did.
Well, we did until the night we went in and there was a sign up behind the counter that said, "No singing".
I think we got found out.
That must have been the night we took up noises instead.
Bird noises, in fact.
A couple of us weren't too bad at throwing our voices, so we kept making bird noises, chittering sounds, and whistling. This went on for at least half an hour, with the lot of us trying our desperate best not to laugh out loud. We were succeeding at confusing the patrons, you see. We were becoming very pleased with ourselves.
How did we know we were succeeding? It must have been the old, crotchety voice from across the shop that eventually shouted...
"WHO LET THE GOD DAMN PIGEONS IN HERE?"