What passed for normal in the structured world of the Queen's Public Executive Program was that we began class at 8:30 every morning, broke for lunch at 12:30, resumed class at 1:30, broke again at 3:30 - and enjoyed lifestyle activities such as yoga, ceramics class and rock climbing - and reconvened at 6:00 p.m. for the last class of the day, which went right to 9:00 p.m.
After every evening session, Bill, the course co-ordinator, would invite the class to join him and the guest speaker in the convention centre pub (a former coach house) for a refreshing beverage and conversation. With the one exception of the night I engaged with the right-wing nut (I tossed a glass of white wine down my throat and fled), I passed on the offer. My normal path at 9:00 p.m. was to take a swing by the snack jars for some sesame things and by the pop fridge for a cranberry juice and head back to my room in time to have a chat on the phone with Bruce. Then I would go to bed.
As the course progressed I picked up from the break and dinner time chatter that some of my course mates were regulars at the pub. They had good stories about Bob the bartender, who was convinced the place was haunted.
None of these stories made me change my pattern, except for the last full day of classes, Thursday, February 20. I was already worn down by the stress of being away from home and being force fed giant amounts of information. On top of that, the day started very early. The program wranglers had arranged for me two morning yoga classes, and Thursday's was the last of those. This was also the day the Canadian women's hockey team played their final. So, I was out of bed at five a.m., the first class was at 8:30 as usual, but, rather than holding a class from 1:30 to 3:30, Bill put the hockey game up on the screen in the classroom. While my classmates rooted for the home team, I went for a walk to take pictures of treacherous sidewalks and spooky old prison buildings.
Bill's magnanimity in giving over class time to the hockey game did not extend to giving us less class time. We still had to sit through three more hours of lectures after the game was over. Then, we had to sprint over to another part of the convention centre for a reception and farewell banquet.
Both of these events featured all the wine you could drink, and the wait staff were assiduous in keeping glasses full.
My table mates at dinner included a man who had distinguished himself in class as bright, funny and engagingly argumentative. He was also one of the pub regulars. We had such a good chat over dinner I failed to keep track of how much wine I drank, so had no judgement left to say "no" when my table mates said, "Let's go to the pub."
Practically the whole class was there. The place roared with conversation and laughter. I ordered what I thought would be my only drink: a single shot of Jack Daniels paired with a big glass of ice water.
By the time I finished my fourth drink, there were about five of us left in the pub. Among other things as I consumed all those drinks, I'd watched a classmate deliver drop-dead perfect impressions of some of the most oddly mannered of our course lecturers and laughed so hard at other random silliness that I feared I would pee my pants.
I also chatted up Bob the bartender about the ghosts. This is what he said:
"It was during one of the biggest events we hold here and there must have been eighty people in the room. There were two women sitting at the bar. They were dressed funny - like goths or something. Anyway, the noise in the room was incredible but I could hear them plain as day, even at the other end of the bar. One of them was talking about how she'd played in the rafters - this place used to be a coach house you know - and then they turned and looked right at me. I went over to them and had my hand on the bar in front of them. One of them put her hand on mine - it was cold as ice! - and said, 'everything will be OK'."
I believed every word he said. I wished a ghost would reassure me, too.
But, Bob had taken exception to the drop-dead perfect impression of Bill the course co-ordinator and called time early to throw us out.
And that's when the man I'd shared dinner conversation with said he had an expensive bottle of Irish whiskey in the trunk of his car. Consensus was quickly reached that he should go get it while we all retired to another classmate's room.
After two shots of perhaps the best Irish in the world, I called a halt to my participation in the festivities. I said I had to go to bed. It was after two in the morning. I'd been awake for more than twenty hours, had had far too much to drink - and had mixed wine and whiskey - and even in my state of extreme inebriation worried that I might feel a bit unwell the next (later the same) day.
But before they let me go, my fellows demanded one more thing of me. One of them held an invisible microphone in front of my face and asked me, "Karen, what one thing would you have done different?"
"I'd have been born with a penis," I said, and went to my room.
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Karen
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