When we were full bore in the holiday season, something strange passed through my brain while watching a Christmas movie. My wife, Sandy, and I try to watch one movie every night in December, leading up to Christmas. We typically get 10 or so completed. We have gone through the best of the Hallmark catalogue and are on to Netflix. One difference is Hallmark movies only have one kiss and it is at the end. I dare you to find me a multi-kiss Hallmark movie; there are some close calls though. Now back to the premise of this column. There have been times over the years when I worried about the clock striking midnight on New Year’s Eve.

It is the kissing thing.

In my youth, we would have house parties and at midnight, we – the boys – would kiss our girlfriends. Had we kissed each other’s girlfriends/ boyfriends, it would have been no big deal since we were like brothers and sisters, which is a creepy way of saying it. Twenty or 25 years ago, Sandy and I were at a house party, where we knew only the couple hosting it. It would have been fine had there been an abundance of couples, but there were only four. I overthink things, but as the clock moved toward midnight, I wondered how this would play out. I drink socially, so booze wasn’t going to fuel my decision. At the big moment, I kissed Sandy and watched as the other couples started kissing everyone else of the opposite sex. Should Sandy and I have moved in for three quick pecks? Was it anti-social not to? Did you know 80 million bacteria are exchanged in a 10-second kiss. Germaphobes shouldn’t be kissing. I want to make it clear that this is my phobia, not Sandy’s. I have two solutions for this: Stay home and watch movies or leave parties at 11:55 p.m. We planned to stay home this year. Happy New Year, especially to YSN’s loyal readers and advertisers.

*****

On Dec. 1, I was sitting in the left-hand turn lane at a red light, minding my own business, when there was a bang and a jolt. A vehicle did the banging and I did the jolting. Someone had hit the rear end of my vehicle. I swore – just one word but at a fairly high decibel level. I feared that the back of the car was badly damaged. I jumped out, and seconds later was delighted and surprised to see the bumper looked fine; not even a scratch. The person in the other car didn’t get out of his vehicle, which struck me as odd. Because we were at the intersection of Clarence Avenue and the entrance to the Walmart parking lot, it was a no-brainer to meet around the corner. Hence, I went to an agreed-upon parking lot. He even gave me smiley-faced thumbs up. I turned into the chosen parking lot, and waited. And waited, and waited. He didn’t show up. I cursed myself for not taking a photo of his licence plate. I am too trusting. In a call to the police, the person who answered the phone said there was a patrol car in the area, and asked if I could describe the vehicle. It was white. Could I describe the person in it? He had a beard. I don’t think this case will be solved, Sherlock.

*****

I thought I had been at fault in three accidents, but Sandy reminded me it was four, and there might be more. Back in the day, I had a thing for poles. Another was with a parked car, and the best one ended up with my vehicle — and me — in a pile of sand. This is the story of three of them. One night, a group of friends gathered in the parking lot of a strip mall. When we dispersed, I backed into a light standard, knocking the lights out in the parking lot. The other pole time was when I went to pick up my wife’s little sister at her part-time job as a server at an A&W. The car slid out of the ice ruts and hit a pole. That friggin pole is still there, with some of the paint from my 1969 Cutlass embedded in it. You might be wondering about the pile of sand. I was out in the boonies in a work area. I could say It was pitch black out and my headlights weren’t functioning properly and I hit a weigh scale and ended up in a pile of sand. Or, I could be honest, and say the headlights weren’t on and I wasn’t functioning properly – no drugs or alcohol — and hit a weigh scale and landed in a pile of sand. I do stupid things on almost a daily basis. Some are more expensive than others.

*****

I have bragged about having “only” two speeding tickets in my driving life. One was on Taylor Street near Walter Murray Collegiate in about 1975, and the other west of Swift Current in about 1995. I opened the mail on a recent day, and inside an envelope was a beautiful photo of my MGB. The photo was in colour. The picture of the licence plate was somewhat blurred. The letter informed me that I had speeding ticket– No. 3 for me. I had gone past a red-light camera at 110 km/h in a 90-km/h zone. In my defence, I didn’t think that camera was activated. Someone said they didn’t think my car would go that fast. Really? In a 110 km/h zone, I pushed it to, um, 125. It was a one-time thing – honest, officer — but there might have been a couple more horses under the hood, or bonnet as we say when we drive a British vehicle. I thought the ticket would be pricier than it was. It topped out at $190. There is a base of $170 and a $2 addition for each kilometre over the speed limit. There will be fewer gifts under the tree. The moral of the story is knowing where photo radar is activated — or slowing down.

– Cam Hutchinson