When I was a kid, my parents used to have the hardest time trying to put me to bed. I was a night owl. I had an arsenal of tactics that I would use against my war with bed time. I was definitely no stranger to the ‘five more minutes’ argument, nor was I shy about feigning ignorance and claiming ‘I didn’t hear you’ while putting on my best pout. I think my favourite strategy was hiding from my parents as soon as I knew bed time was coming. It was like getting to play a game of high stakes hide and seek with opponents who had a deep hatred for the game, oh the adrenaline. It was such a bonus: I got to force my parents into a game of hide and seek AND stay up later than my bed time, especially if I found a really good place to hide. My antics definitely did not go unnoticed by my siblings. I was the poster child for bad bed time influence. Looking back, it surprises me how many sleepovers I was able to secure in my childhood.
It was a fine Tuesday morning when I woke up after a splendid night out with friends, my hollow stomach rumbling for some greasy, filling food to fuel it. Leaving the house, I headed to the closest diner in Kensington Market (Our Spot), ordered myself a plate of food, and upon checkout, handed the cashier my debit card.
And then it happened. In one of the most dreadful moments of my life, I held the card machine in my hand staring at one word, in big block letters: DECLINED.