For a Friday morning, last week was as ordinary as it gets here in Bluenose country. Hopped out of bed, realised that the cat had once again sat on the alarm clock, used the extra hour and a half to find out if cats could safely be mailed to Togo, had a cup of coffee, then got denounced.

As denouncements go, this one was not nearly as bad as the coffee that had preceded it. Were there a universal scale for such things, this one would fall somewhere between Salem and the kid who ran to my parents when I was five, complaining of a spot of cement, a half bag to be precise, that had landed on him accidentally when I opened it above his head . Still, a denouncement is a denouncement is a denouncement, and is apt to make bad coffee taste even worse.

“Ah, but any denouncement has to be preceded by a crime”, I can already hear some of the brighter elements in the audience whisper, and they would be right. Your humble columnist is indeed guilty as charged. My sin? I have, and here I pause in shame, allowed my paint to flake. It gets even worse: the wall on the East side of the house is, how shall I put it delicately, partially denuded. Where once shingles happily hung side by side in neighbourly camaraderie, there are now some empty spots causing the general mood on the wall to be rather sombre. In short, my house has become dangerously unsightly, especially when compared to the immaculate crack house down the street. The denouncement was just a matter of time.

But who could have ratted me out? From experience I knew, that these things are done anonymously here in Halifax. There was no use in asking, since the authorities guard the information as if it were the Enigma code. No, to find out to which bed to send the horse head, only pure logic would do the trick. My first thought was of the prostitutes, since around here they are known for their exquisite taste in architecture. Next on my list were the johns, for who, after all, would want to spoil a shag by looking out of the car window and seeing shingles missing left, right and center. One of them might have called the city to complain. Finally, I hit upon the answer: it must have been the crack dealers who regularly use my steps to rest up after a hard day of dealing. It seemed only logical, since these enterprising young men were probably concerned that one day one of my shingles could fall and injure them beyond recognition. Yes, it was surely they who called in Halifax’s most feared and powerful person: his Holiness, the Inspector Beige.

For those of you who have not had the honour of being called upon by our dear by-law Inspector, here is a piece of advice: always be truthful. Our Mr. Beige can spot a lie from 1.6 kilometres away. I, for one, broke down completely and confessed all. “Mr Beige”, I said while bowed humbly, “the shingles cannot be repaired for reasons of history”. He looked a touch sceptical, so I hastened to explain, that the wall has stood in its current state since the Halifax Explosion, and that no effort on my part had been spared to preserve it for future generations. Furthermore, the peeling paint was meant to add to the general WWI ambiance of the place.

Judging by the changing colour in his face, I surmised that he was deeply moved by my hard work. Any moment now, he would slap me on my back, mumble an apology, or maybe even put me on the city’s honour’s list, if there was such a thing. Of this I was almost certain. You can well imagine my utter devastation, when, instead, he handed me a notice giving me thirty days to fix all the problems he had found and catalogued meticulously in alphabetic order. The thing weighed as much as phone book and included such obscure requests as “build front steps” (under the “B” column).

The Inspector took his leave, but not before checking my fridge (expired milk violation), testing my couch (loose cushion violation) and rifling through my underwear drawer (Class 5 hygiene violations). It seemed to me that he looked rather glum as he reached the front door. I was sure that his mood was inherent to his profession and had nothing to do with the empty fire extinguisher over which he chose to trip on his way out.

Once the pitter patter of his feet melted away, I sat down with my coffee and began to plan. Urgent business was at hand, for I still had to call the Togolese embassy to enquire whether cats needed an entry visa if shipped via currier.