But not as full as myself, alas.
I go to the kitchen to get my morning PepsiTM, which is in a box that's sellotaped shut, again for reasons it would be tedious to go into. My guess is it's been sellotaped by an enthusiastic young male store employee, because it's beyond the abilities of this impatient aging female nanny to prise off. I cut the box open with my kitchen knife, stab hack. I then: put the two cans I punctured with the knifetip into the sink before they can leak all over the floor; think 'What a waste of two cans of Pepsi'; think 'I could drain them into a glass and drink them that way' and pat me on the back for my brilliance; put them slit down over two glasses; think 'They're draining very slowly, I'll have to wait forever for my Pepsi' ohh woe; make the hole in one larger; watch as it still drains slowly; think at long last 'You know if you took off the tab and emptied it into the glass from the top the way it was designed to do, it would go faster.'
I'm almost afraid to go into work today. Fortunately I'm with the pre-schoolers who can tell me (and will) if I do things like give milk to the kid who comes out in red welt rashes if she drinks milk.
Shoutout to lux: for future reference, you can get into Canada by marrying a Canadian. We come in a wide array of designer colours and two basic models. You are free to marry the model of your choice and if you ask me if I still can't belive that, the answer is yes. Since the way it went through, as I saw it, was something like-
Mainstream society: Yes but not 'marriage'.
Paul Martin: Marriage.
Mainstream society: Meh. Whatever.
It's the 'whatever' part that makes me blink. Never underestimate a Canadian's ability not to be terribly interested in anything outside their own particular region. But still.