Mark Carney’s departure for England will be keenly felt by a certain segment of Ottawa society, disproportionately based in the toney enclave of Rockcliffe Park and the would-be-toney neighbourhood of New Edinburgh, who believed Carney’s presence among us — He jogged the canal! His kids used to go to RPPS! — somehow validated Ottawa as a serious town.

The reaction when he walked through certain oak-panelled rooms — the dewey-eyed gaze of the steering committee members, the way Burberry-clad hearts would go pitty-pat — was Pavlovian. I’ve attended more than one dinner party where conversation turned, in the bank governor’s absence, to a perennial topic: “I don’t know how Mark puts up with this shitty little town.”

Now that he’s leaving, there’ll be an undercurrent of bitterness at Fraser Café tonight. The ADMs will be muttering into their aioli. “This is just another hopped-up lumber town,” they’ll say. “Always was.”

“Can’t keep serious talent,” the visiting fellows will grumble. “Now I’ll never get to ask him where he bought his cufflinks.”

But what if this whole international-mandarin-class thing is a good idea?  Continue…