MPs are assigned seats — government to the Speaker’s right, Opposition to his left. When a government caucus is particularly large, a rump group sits on the Opposition side — a kind of purgatory (with only a chance camera angle). On the government side, seating is by rank — Cabinet on the front benches, backbenchers arrayed behind them. Reserved for newcomers, the back row is near-purgatory; a lucky camera shot will pick up your head over a minister’s shoulder. The corner seats are hell. Reading the seating plan is like seeing who stands atop Lenin’s tomb during the May Day parade: from it, you know who’s in and who’s out.

From the next-to-last row but dead centre, I surveyed the scene. Across the aisle sat Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, the Bloc Québécois, who wanted to tear the country apart. Next to them was the Reform Party, at almost equal strength, and dismissive of Ottawa for other reasons. By tradition, the sides of Parliament sit at least two sword lengths apart; battle here amounts to blasting each other with words, not buckshot and steel. Sometimes, I thought, a little buckshot wouldn’t hurt.

During question period (QP), I watched ministers ready themselves to answer Opposition questions. They’d anxiously scan briefing books, edge forward, and start to stand, checking first to see if the prime minister was rustling. Not good to be on your feet if Chrétien wanted to take the question; possibly worse if he chose to let you face the barrage on your own; political death if he glared at you after your response. If he stood to answer a question directed at you, it might mean he thought you were a lightweight. We all watched attentively: if Chrétien laughed, we laughed; if he frowned, we did, too. In Canada, the prime minister is not the head of the army, but in Parliament he is certainly the commander-in-chief.

QP has little to do with governance. It’s political theatre staged for the media, and designed to deflect attention as much as to address an issue. Clips appear on the nightly news, which we all watched, desperate to see our side looking smart. “We nailed them with that one” and “I bet they’re sorry they asked that” can be heard in the halls hours later. Still, this being Canada, even QP is mannered, has a code of ethics. You can insinuate and provoke, but you cannot call your opponent a liar — he is always “worthy” — and you cannot be so insulting as to use his name. An MP must be addressed as “the Honourable Member from . . . ” or “the Honourable Member opposite.” You may, however, slur the word “honourable” with disdain. Most do. The Speaker, “His Imperiousness,” referees. House voting is simple. If you are on the government side and your party is trying to get something passed, you support it. If the Opposition wants something, you reject it. If the whip hasn’t told you how to vote, you watch the front bench. When the Speaker calls the vote — “Would all those in favour of the motion please rise” — you move to keep alliances and friendships alive. It’s pretty dull stuff, unless there’s a free vote, a nod by the government that all MPs have consciences after all. Free votes are rare.

Proceedings are delivered in both official languages, and MPs are fed simultaneous translations. No one sees the translators. They are hidden in booths at the back of the House and slink in and out as shifts change. Some are men, some women — that’s all you know — but you do come to prefer one over another. Some MPs become infatuated with particular disembodied voices and what they might hold. As House debates droned on, we’d daydream. For those so predisposed, soon enough sexual fantasies take over.

Bob Kaplan, a savvy former Cabinet minister, told me not to run for Parliament if I wouldn’t be satisfied achieving “a few small things.” The constituency office is part of the job, and I did my time. Some MPs consider it tedious, “small” stuff with no publicity attached, but they can sometimes cut through red tape and solve problems for their constituents. As often, they can’t. Just listening can help, though.

My staff had complained about a man who kept showing up insisting he was being followed. “Check with the police,” I said. “We have,” they replied. “They say they’re not following him.” “Did you tell him? ” I asked. “Yes. He said it’s the rcmp, and he really needs to talk to you.” I agreed to meet with him but checked again with the rcmp, who confirmed that they had no knowledge of, or interest in, this man. When we met, I happily reported, “The rcmp say they are not following you.” He went silent for a moment and then said, “Well, of course they wouldn’t tell you if they were following me.” He had a point. Even paranoids have enemies, I thought. At our next meeting, I said, “I can’t tell you for sure that you are not being followed.” He broke into a smile, “Oh, thank you. No one has ever believed me before.” We never saw him again.

You think of yourself as a regular guy, but some constituents put you on a pedestal. New Canadians tend to be extremely deferential, because many come from countries where government officials are powerful and sometimes dangerous. This cuts two ways: it makes them scared, and inflates their sense of what you can do. Both are problems.

Many people come looking for a job or a loan, or just to vent. These you cannot help. One morning, a man showed up with shopping bags of bricks made out of compressed hay. He stacked them on my desk and explained that they would solve everything: “No more insulation needed, lower heating costs, an end to agricultural subsidies.” He left with his plastic bags leaking uncompressed hay all over my desk and office. I wondered if he had read The Three Little Pigs.

Many constituents complained about taxes, of course. They’d ride the subway, walk on sidewalks, arrive at my office, and say, “I get nothing for my taxes.” “How did you get here?” I would ask. “The subway? The sidewalk? Your taxes at work. And by the way, how is your son doing at university? Your taxes at work,” I’d say.