Thursday, January 26, 2006
Wasn't it just yesterday, the Liberals were falling down on their knees, thanking the Almighty for their puny survival. But today, the grey creep of dawn won't spare them their dishonour.
The castle has been lost. The giant hand has moved in the black king, rolled up the drawbridge, and clanged it shut. It was all there on TV for the nation to see.
Yet their punishment is not over. Besmirched and poverty-striken from their past excesses, they now have battle each other for control of the party monster. Like Medusa’s head, it writhes, serpentine. Martin, oh Martin has fled!
It's hard to pity them. And it's hard not to -- a scrambling mix of the hopeful and the hopeless, grasping for power, unwashed and undeserving.
And then, lo and behold! -- here’s Frank McKenna, the newly minted ex-ambassador to USA, marching back across the border to trumpet anthems, wings ablaze, like a veritable messenger from God.
Frank McKenna, the cool, the unflappable. Frank McKenna, stately, solemn, dignified, his cute li’l ol’ east-coast accent firmly in check.
Frank McKenna in every newspaper, that elegantly written letter, a flourish in every paragraph. My, what a letter.
Everything about him screaming Experienced, Capable, Untainted.
The Liberals look up from their misery, drop their cudgels, wipe their drooling lips, gasp for air.
Could he… could he… be The One?