The Rover takes your calls

What a bad hangover and an 80-year-old woman called Phyllis taught me about loyalty in this blood-sucking, grave-robbing industry

It had to be more than just a slip of the finger. Surely it was fate, magic or some freak occurrence in the cosmos that had connected us.

I was a young reporter, spiking my coffee with Pepto-Bismol the morning after a particularly reckless Friday night on Bishop Street. My mission would have been to get through a weekend shift without leaving my desk or …