My father was so popular, he was nicknamed before he was born. Along with perforated eardrums (teachers regularly slapped his ears for being a mischief-maker), Dad left school with two things he would carry for the rest of his life: high school failure (like his son...

Last Thursday, Victoria Mboko, an 18-year-old Canadian (her family emigrated from Congo), won the Canadian Open Tennis Championship in front of her home crowd in Montréal. At the start of the year, “Vicky” was ranked 351. She scraped into the tournament as a wild...

It was all Laura’s fault. “Hon, if we’re going to Tanzania, can we visit a game park? The kids would love it.” “I’m going home after thirty years. I thought we could spend a week in Dar-es-Salaam, looking up relatives and friends I’ve lost touch with. If we go to,...

I met Hazel on my first trip to Cyprus. Thin as a twig, white-haired, she strode along the promenade in front of my hotel in Pyla, a seaside village on Dhekelia Road. Her beige McGill University cap matched her shorts. Hazel drew my attention by annoyingly outpacing...

What was I thinking? I had got myself lumbered, training as an accountant at £600 a year ($1,200), with two weeks’ unpaid study leave to pass my exams. I was 18 years old, a high school failure, scraping into a CPA programme by the skin of my teeth just before its...

Being bachelors, Joe—my boss—would regularly take me out for late-night supper. Calgary, being a sleepy town, only had one place serving food at that hour: Chinatown. The only restaurant open until 4 a.m. was the Golden Inn. Joe, a real estate mogul worth hundreds of...

A rarity in the interviewing world once asked me, “You seem unsure of what you are. One minute you say you’re a writer, another minute an author. Which are you?” The question haunted me, as I was dissatisfied with either title. At the age of five, I was parcelled off...

“How did you get from mistakenly entering Canada Immigration in London to sitting here in front of me in Calgary?” By now, the lunch-hour crowd had thinned at La Petite Pâtisserie. My time was also running out. Mike shrugged apologetically. “These days, it’s hard to...

La Petite Patisserie was not one of my favourites. Restaurants or cafés, I preferred “mum and dad” businesses, where you were instantly recognised and welcomed as family. Upon entering, you would feel as though you’d arrived home. You’d exchange banter. Not so with La...

The phone rang. “Hi! This is Mike, a neighbour of yours. I read the blurb you posted about your writing in the mailroom. Can I buy you a coffee?” Without thinking, I agreed. Did I make a mistake? Mike was so ordinary. If you gazed into his face for an hour, you’d...