I’m not perfect. Never made any claims at such, and it never surprises me when I’m reminded by a reader that I’ve gotten it wrong.
But it’s nice when I get it right.
So, the voice on my phone cackled at me like an old TV western prospector.
“Ye Got it wrong, last three times you’ve run the story, ye’ve gotten it wrong, hee hee.”
He said his name so fast I couldn’t quite make it out. But damn, he was happy.
“Ye said that that bridge to the park the city is working on goes from Oxford Street to the park. It don’t! It goes from Birch Street to the park.”
And then he cackled some more, gleefully.
Now, I’m right in the middle of two other stories, so I had to think about it. And it’s always possible that I did get it wrong in the story today.
“Umm,” I said, thoughtfully.
“Hee! I’m right! I’m right! Hee hee! I knew it! Ye got it wrong, didn’t ye!”
I told him I’d have to check, but he was gone at that point, chortling, giggling and choking just a little bit. He must have won a bet.
Thing is, I wasn’t wrong. The little bridge goes from Oxford Street to Simard Payne Park. It’s right there, signs on the road, maps on the computer. Birch Street is blocks away. I don’t even know what the heck he was talking about.
Somewhere a gleeful, chuckling leprechaun of a man lost a bet.