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Even now, after 36 quite wonderful years, I still sometimes pinch myself. Maybe someone will finally figure me out and that dreaded knock on the door will echo before being dragged away and shipped back to where I came from.

The late-night knock silliness is, of course, total hyperbole. Yet my wife — who once bravely walked into the KGB’s Moscow headquarters as a young woman and told them that, nope, she just wasn’t working for them any more — worries me with her knowing smirk.

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Ah, but she’s Russian, born and bred, which means not only she possesses the planet’s most beautiful female genes but also its most entrenched skepticism.

Still, I reckon it’s safe now: that after this long nobody’s going to bother sending me back to England. For my part, I’ve long since considered myself Canadian, even if able to hit a cover drive (psst, it’s cricket) far better than any slap shot.

You see, life sometimes hands out lucky straws and I got an extra long one, stepping off that Wardair plane in lovely Leduc, back in the spring of 1982.