The word from every sage source, from within the cavernous atrium of CBC Toronto to the tom-toms of the Twitter undergrowth, even unto the seers in the nation’s political science departments where wisdom has her own happy seat, is that this fractious, cantankerous, debt-drowned and perplexed country of ours is to have an election. They tell us it is to be called on Sunday. Normally a day of prayer and worship, but when there’s a writ to be issued, cancel the Sunday bulletins, forget the rash of church burnings, and the turmoil of lockdowns and business collapses — hey, it’s late summer: let’s go to the polls. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, so all the auspices agree, has made up his mighty mind. And when that cranium has made a choice it is but for us to signify assent. Should it be agreeable to him, how could it not be to us?