Sure. Go ahead. You just try to insulate yourself against the cortex-impaling, amygdalae-corroding tedium of Canadian politics. Run all the way to London, if you like. Your flight will be futile.
For there, in the Baroque/Rococo wing of the Victoria and Albert Museum, you will literally bump into Michael Ignatieff, and you will enjoy the immediate and entirely unbidden reflection that his constituents have little hope of ever meeting the man unless they share his enthusiasm for early Eighteenth-Century Meissen and are fiscally equipped to indulge it.
As you attempt vainly to dispel the effulgent aura of Iggy's presence, it will strike you that the House has almost certainly risen to its Summer recess, thus bringing the axe mercifully down upon yet another wholly worthless session.
You will not care. You will merely be tempted to ask the Iggster what Bob Rae is really like. You will resist, contain yourself, and move placidly on.