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I used to have a fireplace in my first basement suite.

Now, when I say I had a fireplace, I mean I had a glowing heater in the shape of a fire.

It was one of the weirder things I’ve ever seen, although completely in step with the motif of the suite — a motif which I would label, “How Many Weird Architectural Quirks Can You Put In 150 Sq Ft?”

I would only turn the thing on for a few moments now and then, because it kicked out heat like a female cat in Springtime.

I’m what they call a ‘warm person.’ I can crack 100 F without a sweat. Or maybe with a sweat. Though I try and avoid that.

One weekend, I had some nice, recently-married house guests.

They were ‘cold’ people — not in the sense that they were terrible, heartless CEOs, but in the sense that their bodies were less efficient at supplying them with heat than my own.

They slept in the living room, and kept the glowing fire-shape going all night. My bedroom, directly adjacent to the living room, slowly became one of the latter levels of Dante’s Inferno, and I was left sticking my head out the tiny basement window and gasping at the -35 C air every two minutes or so.

I could have asked them to turn it off, but I figured the comfort of my guests was paramount.

And, by some divine provision, I happened to have a bottle of water in my room. So I slugged that back, hoping to drain it before the water came to a boil.

Then, of course, I had to pee.

This meant I would have to traipse across the married couple to go to the bathroom. Well, not across them, but right next to them. Opening and closing doors in this place created a noise akin to shots going off in Beirut, so I wasn’t too eager to make my move.

I just wanted to be a good host.

And I was 20 years old.

But none of that is excuse enough for the fact that I climbed out my window, and peed in the snow.

In my flannel nightgown.

In subzero temperatures.

I peed in the snow.

And then I crawled back into my bedroom, strangely relieved and refreshed, and fell asleep. They never suspected a thing.

However, the next day, my elderly upstairs neighbour thanked me for “… getting up to shoo the cats away. Those damn things always pee on our backyard snow.”

Erm.

You’re welcome.

This is when I began to develop my theory that old people never sleep.

They go to bed at ten, read for six hours, sigh deeply, turn over twice, and get up again at 5 am to make tea and toast.

Sure, they nap in the afternoons, but don’t let them fool you with the removal of glasses and the leaning back in chairs.

They are like coils, waiting to spring! Like rattlesnakes with walkers!

That’s why nursing homes are like New York City (without the Rockettes and Hello Deli.) Someone is always awake.

Children you can trust. They nap and drool and lie with their mouths hanging open like Pac Man going for the 100-pt cherry.

But old folks?

They’re the ones running the world.