Eavesdropping v. the act of secretly listening to the private conversation of others without their consent

The day my helpfulness was stolen from me.

It started with a simple question - “Excuse me Love. Do you know if we’re headed towards the Eaton’s Centre?” The lost man was wearing a Crocodile Dundee hat and was sporting a very generous tuft of greybeard so his referring to me as “Love” was less offensive than the average person. I let the overly familiar endearment slide, processed the question, and decided that yes, we were going northbound from Union towards Finch, and that we would hit Dundas or Queen station in a stop or two. “Yup” I said. “What station should I get off at for the Eaton’s Centre then?” he wondered. “You can get off at either Queen or wait one more stop and get off at Dundas,” I said, obligingly. “What was that?!” he said, sounding puzzled, “I don’t want to have to walk that far to get there – so which station is closer?”

Then, Out of nowhere, my hero, let’s call him Yves Dropeur, piped in. And here is a word for word account of his actual interjected response: “Ac-tu-al-ly, the shopping centre spans an entire city block or two, Sir, so both stops are viable options for your destination”. Yves was a strange saggy gentleman and he seemed to have instantly appeared like a mirage, extending his long helpful neck over my shoulder and into my private conversation. Yves wore biker shorts* and smiled at me with a knowing “I’ll take it from here” smirk as he edged his body between the Australian tourist and myself, posturing for a more in-depth discussion about Toronto tourism destinations and best travel routes. He was relishing his new-found role as tourism ambassador to the city. Instantly I pictured him in an INFO kiosk happily flipping through pamphlets and pointing out all the best-kept secrets and must-see monuments Toronto has to offer.

*Let’s circle back to Yves actual attire for a moment. When I said biker shorts I want to be clear that I did not mean black Harley shorts with studs and skulls and crossbones but, rather a indigo blue, shiny Lycra, nut-hugging pair of short-shorts. This man also had tiny John Lennon glasses and extremely sculpted calf muscles. He was likely a bike messenger given the look, but I think he took his role as messenger a little too literally on this occasion. Quite clearly no longer needed for my in-born GPS abilities, I sat back down and turned on my iPod. First song: Waltzing Matilda.