My morning routine, like that of any blue blooded Bluenoser, goes something like this: crawl out of bed promptly at around 8:30 or sleep a bit longer. Fall over the cat on the way to the washroom, then have a quick look out the window. If the fog prevents you from having a good glance at your neighbour’s bedroom, you know that it will be a lovely, albeit rainy day. Conversely, should you find yourself catching him in flagrante delicto (Cape British for sleeping soundly), it is a sure sign that fog and rain, although fashionably late, are just around the corner.

Next, you clog your arteries with some eggs and b. and promptly unclog them with any bits of fibre that fit into your cereal bowl. Getting dressed while stumbling over any number of cats, has become second nature to us. So has finding a winter-ban prompted parking ticket on the windshield first thing in the morning. That this happens even in July is something we dismiss with a shrug. After all, we reason, even the meter maids need to stick to some form of routine. It’s good for the soul.

Having internalised these rituals since being marooned on the shores of this, the best  province in the world, it came as a bit of a shock when, during the act of untangling Her Majesty’s Parking Writ from underneath the windshield wipers, two officious looking gentlemen popped up from behind the car with formal and serious looking moustaches at the ready.

By the shape of their facial hair, I instantly divined that they were officers of the law. Still, something was odd about them. For one, they were not wearing the RCMP’s standard issue polyester blended suits, the ones that are slightly too short at the bottom. No, these two were nattily dressed. There was almost something Milanese in the debonair manner in which they dragged me off.

Now, when arrested, we Bluenosers are as cool and carefree as the best of them. After all, visits to the drunk tank are virtually mandatory rights of passages. These little trips allow us to mingle with our neighbours, share baby pictures, and to get formally introduced to our neighbourhood jailors.

This arrest was, however, slightly more ominous. For one, no one offered to make a Tim Hortons run before starting the formalities. There was also a nervous looking stranger mingling about, looking completely out of place. It turned out to be my lawyer.

The reason for his agitation was to become clear within minutes. My two arresting officers were from Interpol, explaining the lack of coffee stains on their ties. I had, apparently, become an international fugitive while dreaming of Alexa McDonough in a bikini the night before. You see, according to the Mexican police, I had committed murder most foul.

At first glance, the whole thing seemed quite ludicrous to me. Killing anyone had always struck me as pointless, since nature, given some time, will do the job on her own. Having to travel all the way to Mexico to engage in such an act, also appeared to be a perplexing waste of energy, since there were plenty of perfectly good victims to be found closer to home. The Jehovah’s witnesses who interrupted my soccer game last Saturday immediately sprang to mind.

I explained all this in great detail to my jailors, but noticed right away that they were underwhelmed by my logic. According to the Mexicans, the evidence against me trounced my feeble defence.

As they read their detailed list, my heart started to sink. The murderer was a Canadian about six foot tall, weighing about 185 pounds, which described me to a tee. He also had thick black hair and a wooden leg.  Mine had been a bit stiff all week, so I could understand their suspicions. Finally, when they mentioned his name, Franz Strikolopolous, even I knew the game was up: such coincidences could not be dismissed with a shrug. The Mexicans clearly had done their homework.

So what if I had never actually been to Mexico? I was certain that they would find a way to place me on the scene. After all, didn’t I pop down to Costa Rica two years ago?  Surely that was close enough for them.  True, there was no clear motive, but then again, like every good Nova Scotian, I sometimes get slightly annoyed at tourists in general. As far as the Mexicans were concerned, it was only a small step from dislike to wholesale slaughter. In their eyes, I had the capacity to massacre an entire Club-Med population. They might have been right about that one.  In short, the whole thing appeared to be an open and shut case.

As I was about to confess all, my jittery lawyer whispered something to me about an alibi. At first I hesitated, since I was not convinced that my wife even realised that I had left my study in the last month. All of a sudden inspiration hit. I quickly shuffled through my coat pocket and triumphantly pulled out a parking ticket. It was dated the morning of the murders.

Within minutes, I was a free man  but was rearrested only moments later.  It turned out that my neighbour had taken offence to my morning peeping activities.

I was overcome by a soothing calm when I returned to my cell. After all, it had become part of my routine.

When not staring into his neighbour’s bedroom, Frank Streicher does a middling imitation of a satirist. It’s part of  his routine. You can reach him at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it .