Molson

I'm sitting in the Molson-Pub Bar & Grill in Toronto International Airport, I'm sucking an ice-water through a lemony straw. I've probably got another half an hour or so of good faith with the staff before they encourage me to order or leave.
The good faith I have is based on the Double Morgan and Coke I had when I came in.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but instead of making me pleasantly drunk it gave me a wet-slap of a headache which nearly knocked me unconscious.
It suddenly occurred to my body-clock that I had been awake for 18 straight hours (ironic because it is 6 o'clock pm here in Toronto) and it responded my making me so incapable of focus that I had a tricky time making eye contact with the staff to ask for water.
My wonderful master-plan for my trip through Toronto has completely fallen through.
The aformentioned plan went something like this: go to Toronto. leave the airport, and get a train into a nice downtown area. Eat a meal and wonder around. Return to the Airport and Fly to LAX.
Naturally enough my plane to Canada was hideously delayed and I spent time that was meant to be spent investigating Toronto, sitting on a floor in Dublin.
When I arrived at YYZ I discovered that US Immigration had created a marvellous, inescapable red-tape maze, which chewed me up and spat me into the US departures end of YYZ.
Time to move on.