He is already the best protected Prime Minister in Canadian history. Wherever he goes he is surrounded by an army of RCMP bodyguards.
His motorcade of sinister black vehicles is as big or bigger than Obama's secret service convoys.
No ordinary Canadians can get anywhere near him. Only Con supporters who have been vetted by his office.
But even that isn't enough to reassure our cowardly mad king.
Well Spring has finally arrived in the little corner of Canada where I live.
The hockey goals have been fished out of the once frozen canal where they sank after the ice melted.
And biking season is here at last...
Which would be perfect if I didn't live in Harperland, where winter never really ends.
And you can still be hit by this kind of icy chill.
It was a magnificent and moving sight, fourteen beams of light reaching into the sky from the top of Montreal's Mount Royal.
One for each of the women murdered at the École Polytechnique, in the shadow of the mountain where I want my ashes scattered, twenty-five years ago.
But as beautiful as that sight was, for some reason it also reminded me that I live in the darkness of Harperland.
Where the points of light are few and far between, and all is ugly and CRAZY.
