You will recall that, in the later days of 2013, the world of politics was awash in explanations, denials, admissions and apologies. Indeed, apologies above all.

Under the cover of interest generated at the senatorial and mayoral level, I have jumped on the apologizing bandwagon and decided to get some apologies off my own chest. Be warned, some go back a long way.

At university, I was invited to a formal by a young sorority woman. I accepted and, on the designated February night, I pulled up at her sorority house. I thought my date was a free-spirited young woman who would be thrilled to set out to the pre-dance dinner in a vintage MG sports car.

“Holy catfish,” she said. “Put the top up.”

This I did. So much for free spirit.

“Now turn on the heater,” she said.

“What heater?” I replied.

And those were the last words we spoke that night and that year. She started dating a business student.

And here, somewhat late, is my apology: “Sorry, Francesca.”

More recent is an apology I owe to a national Canadian radio figure. I knew him in a casual way and, one night, I bumped into him as he was having a drink with his wife. He invited me to sit in and, of course, introduced me.

I told her we had met a few years before when I saw her going into a house in Brandon – with the radio star.

“No,” said the radio guy. “No, no, no.”

“But I remember distinctly,” I said.

At which point his wife spoke: “I have never been in Brandon.”

I think that at that point, I went to the washroom and never came back.

Turning to apologies in the family, I remember it was a cold morning in Montreal and my two young preschool daughters wanted milk with their breakfast cereal.

Not only did we not have real milk, we only had a tablespoon of skim milk powder. Not really enough, so I thought of something white and mixed in a quarter cup of flour. From a distance, it looked like milk.

“Here you are,” I said to them, “homemade milk.”

“No,” they said. “It’s paste. We saw you make it.”

We negotiated, and then I put on my coat and went out into the snow. I think I have apologized for that event several times.

Now, take drink – a breeding ground for apologies. I never have the energy to generate a drunken stupor but, several times, I have found myself with a drink in hand along with the knowledge that if I tossed it back, I would either fall over or throw up.

My solution – one that calls for a string of apologies – is to dump the drink. Thus, I have poured potent martinis into innocent potted plants, poured them down the arms of sofas and thrown them out of windows.

But major apologies are due to the staff of a very upscale restaurant at which I found myself consuming cognac one night with a man who could do some good for my magazine. He kept happily ordering and, in desperation, I arrived at a solution. I stuffed a linen napkin in my jacket pocket and slyly and carefully poured in the cognac.

Success. It worked. My companion left on his own two feet – and so did I as I handed over a lavish supply of banknotes. But as I stepped steadily to the door, the maître d’ stopped me. “If you would be so kind, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.

And I placed therein one wet napkin.

Then, there was the time our hound dog Boots came home on a summer day. In his mouth, he carried a cooked chicken, still warm, with evidence of carving on one side. I did what any responsible homeowner would do: I pulled the dog and chicken into the house, locked the doors and sat in the basement until night fell.

No one came by, looking for a chicken. But if you missed one from your picnic table and have been wondering for years, this is your answer. Sorry.

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