This time last year I was plonking floor into a house square in the middle of an immense development project on Vancouver Island. I'd eat egg mayonnaise sandwiches and watch the neighbouring construction workers clamber material over each other, resulting in instant houses. Entire domiciles were built faster than I could install a 3 room floor. Of course, the floors'll probably outlast the rest of the house (most houses're given maybe 25-35 year lifespans these days.. criminal). In this house there was a painter called Wayne. Wayne was a self-professed redneck and spoke long about utter crap while drooping a perpetual Player's cigarette under his ratstache. I didn't pay him heed until he complained about his old scar. He said it was the humidity up and getting into the bone, or some such, and that it hadn't been the same since he'd been hit by the second train. I stopped what I was doing, turned off the rattley compressor and asked him if would recount both that and the first time as well. First time, he a was in a car. They got stuck on the tracks. They were drunk. Second time, he was on foot, but managed to SOMEHOW prove that the engine driver was all coked up (on a diesel train..?). He was drunk. I suddenly realized that this was his decade-old bar story and stalked back to my floor prickling with annoyance at those who big-up their idiocies, if not out and out lie. I think Wayne also stole my outdated Blockbuster card. It was for a Montreal address.