My new place has closets! Two of them. They're not very big though, and I have a lot of clothes, so for Christmas, my mom offered to go wardrobe/armoire shopping with me.* We found a suitable used wardrobe at a little second-hand furniture store, which I'll call Aba's**Furniture Grotto and Lampshade Emporium near the new place, and after some bargaining with the proprietor, arranged to have the piece delivered.

"The apartment is a second-floor walk-up, and it's just me there," I cautioned him. "You'll need two people."

"It's fine, it's fine!" he assured me.

Tuesday, we went to Aba's Furniture Grotto and Lampshade Emporium to arrange delivery, as we would be at the new place painting the bathroom. We also bought a tall dresser, so that I can use that instead of the two small dressers that I've had since I was a baby (and my mother had, as a teenager before me). Aba promised delivery. I reminded him about the stairs.

"It's fine!" he said "No problem!"

So off we went to the paint store and to the new place, to paint the bathroom, and other areas forgotten by the landlady's painter.***

My mom was back at the paint store, fetching more primer, when the doorbell rang. I went downstairs to find one guy on my doorstep.

"So, where's do you want this?" he asked me. I told him the apartment was upstairs, and asked where the second mover was. He said "Don't you have someone here?"

"I told Aba it was up on a second floor, and that it was just me," I said, "I warned him, and he said it was okay."

"Well," said the mover (I think his name was Frank, so we'll call him that for now.) "That's Aba. He's kind of shitty. Maybe your neighbour can help."

My neighbour was sitting on the porch of the house next door, enjoying his beer and cigarette. "Hey, man!" Frank said, "You wanna help me move this stuff up the stairs for your new neighbour? You, know, do a good deed for a nice lady?"

"I dunno," said the neighbour, "She pretty?"

"Yeah, man, she's actually quite attractive," Frank assured him.

At which point I said, "Dude, no. I'll move the damn' things myself, if I have to, but you are not having this conversation here, in front of me, and expecting me not to feel completely creeped out by this."

Frank just looked at me. "The dresser's really heavy," he said.

"Fine." I went out onto the porch, in my jeans and "5,000 Years of Patriarchy, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt" t-shirt, hating myself, hating the furniture, hating Aba and Frank and as-yet-nameless neighbour dude. "Hi, I'm [[Zingerella]], your new neighbour. Am I pretty enough for you to help with this furniture? I could really use a hand."

The neighour's name is Ron. He allowed as how he could help, but made no further mention of my appearance. I don't think he read my t-shirt.

So Frank and Ron moved the dresser and the wardrobe up the stairs and into my bedroom. Frank, who seemed have brought his girlfriend or some female friend along with him in the truck, asked loudly if I was moving into the place on my own, then if I was single, or if I had a boyfriend. I wished I had a girlfriend, so that I could truthfully say that my girlfriend hadn't been available that night.

The wardrobe door swung open, hitting my nice brass candle-lantern thingy and breaking the shade off the arm (does anyone know how to braze brass? I think it can be put back together, but I don't know how to do it.), but without committing further damage. I asked Ron what kind of pie he likes, and promised him a pie in payment for his moving assistance, after I get moved in. For some reason, in my mind, if I give Ron a pie, we're quits, whereas if I just accept a favour from him, there's some sort of imbalance in our interaction, and he gets to expect that I'll be super-duper nice to him or something. I wouldn't feel that way if he hadn't asked if I were pretty, though. I mean, I'd still take him baked goods to thank him for the help, but it would feel pleasant and neighbourly, rather than transactional and necessary.

So now I have a wardrobe (which needs shimming), a dresser (whose handle needs re-applying), and a broken candle-holder which needs repairing. I also have an accent wall above my fireplace, a very bright green bathroom, a debt of one blueberry pie to my next door neighbour, and a set of complicated feelings about my furniture which mostly boil down to hating the patriarchy. I also have green paint in my hair, and, unaccountably, on my bra. 

* Note to online furniture vendors: Armour is something you put around something else (like your body) to protect it. An armoir is a free-standing cabinet in which you store things like clothing, linens, or televisions. Advertising an armour in which you can store things leads me to think that you're selling a pair of greaves stuffed full of socks, or some such. Amour is French for "love," and should not be used for storing socks at all. 

** Because that's the proprietor's name.

*** Who, unaccountably, left the area above the bedroom fireplace plain white, having painted the entire rest of the bedroom in the boring putty colour (I think it's called "Mountain Mist" or "Cloud Cover," or some such attempt to make light grey sound appealing) the landlady requested (after I thought we had agreed on sage green. Sigh.)

Overhearing screaming fights through walls.

First it was shouty neighbour. Now it's the landlord and landlady, through the kitchen wall (the landlord's office is an extension on our house—with its own separate entrance and all, it's not like he walks through the kitchen on his way to work each day).

I went down to make a cup of tea, and she was shouting. She left and slammed the door, and he screamed out "FUUUCK YOOOU!" I ducked so she wouldn't see me through the kitchen window as she drove past. I don't know why I did that. I didn't want them knowing I'd witnessed their anger, which is kind of odd, because if they didn't want people to witness, maybe conducting their argument at top volume wasn't the best strategy. But I assumed they'd not thought of that, and thought their fight was some sort of private. Walls, even thin ones, do provide a sense of privacy, which is often incorrect, as anyone who's ever conducted private affairs in a tent has learned.

I do not like overhearing other people's personal business. I find arguments, especially heated ones, extremely uncomfortable (I guess most people do). I'm always waiting for the moment shouting turns to physical violence, ready to call 9-1-1. Then, when I encounter the people I've overheard, later, all I can think of is the things they said in the heat of anger. My view of them has changed, and it now includes this angry, shouty, not-very-rational person

It's weird. Prior to moving here, we lived in the Eyrie, and our downstairs neighbours, when they weren't smoking the foulest pot imaginable, had pretty regular screaming fights, at least one of which turned physical. Now shouty neighbour, and FUUUCKYOOOOU landlord. Perhaps this kind of noisy disagreement is actually common, and I'm just weird? (Of course, now that I've been all judgemental in this post, people aren't exactly going to cop to screaming at their partners or members of their household, or their dogs, I guess.) Still, I am wondering whether I am just really unfortunate in my neighbours.

It's puzzling.
And the Toronto Choral Society, in which both [personal profile] neeuqdrazil  and I sing, is performing Handel's Messiah. We don't suck this year,* so if you like listening to large choirs, or the Messiah, or large choirs singing the Messiah, and you have the evening of Wednesday, December 15, free, you should consider coming to hear us.

Here is a link, from which you may order tickets. Tell them I sent you, please.

If you do not like to buy tickets over the Internets, I will be happy to take your money, buy your tickets for you at choir practice, and leave them at the door on the night of the concert.

If you are very broke and cannot buy a ticket, you have my complete sympathy. If you still want to hear us perform the Messiah, let me know, and I'll put you in touch with the concert volunteer coordinator, and you can hand out programmes or do other front of house things, and hear the concert.

In other news entirely, Shouty Neighbour Man, the owner of STFU Charlie, spent about 10 minutes this morning singing to STFU Charlie, and crooning STFU Charlie's name. "Chaaaarrrliieee... Chaaarrrlieeeeee!" This caused STFU Charlie to bark (of course. Everything causes STFU Charlie to bark, as far as I can tell from this side of the shared wall. The subway rumbling underneath us. The wind. Invisible, inaudible alien presences or aetheric disturbances. And bugs.), whereupon he shouted (of course) "STFU CHARLIE!!!"

Okay, then.

*This? This is why I don't have a career writing marketing copy.

zingerella: Capital letter "Z" decorated with twining blue and purple vegetation (Default)
( Nov. 3rd, 2010 10:20 am)
I've elevated this from a comment in [personal profile] sabotabby 's comments to its own post, because I really am baffled by this. Dictionopolis is one side of a duplex. Our next door neighbours seem like reasonably nice yuppies. He wears snappy suit jackets and nifty hats, and goes out at around 9:30 every morning. In the evenings he walks his little dogs. I think she's a fitness instructor or something—she's frequently home during the day, but not all day the way I am, and she often wears yoga pants and t-shirts. She's also very skinny, but more in the way of someone who does a lot of aerobics than in the way of someone who doesn't eat enough. ANYWAY. We see them to say "Hi" to on the street, and they're really decent about my parking my bike on their side of the house, in the lane between the houses.

But we share a wall. And when you share a wall with people, you get to know things about them that you mightn't know if your houses had more air between them. So we know that he has serious anger-management issues.

Used to be that all I knew of this was his singularly ineffective approach to dog training. Around 9:30 or 10:00 each night, the infamous Charlie (the more neurotic of the two small fluffy dogs) would begin to bark. And bark and bark and bark. Then he would shout "SHUT THE FUCK UP CHARLIE!" Strangely, this did not actually cause Charlie to stop barking. (My guess is that poor Charlie barks because 1) she's just a barky dog, 2) they shut her away from her pack at night and haven't put the time into training her to sleep on her own, and 3) she wants the attention and reassurance that her monkeys are there. She may also be scared or trying to alert them that cars! are driving by! and there are shadows! and noises! I really don't think it's her fault that she's a dog.)

Later, when I started leaving for work later in the mornings, I would hear Anger-Management Neighbour go off on a tear at around 9:30 many mornings. As I was pulling my crap together to leave, I'd hear this explosive "FUUUCCKK!" Not like "Oh fuck, I dropped my contact down the sink and now I have to wear glasses." More like "Fuck your goddamn dog just crapped in my $1200 loafers and I didn't notice until my foot, clad in my $200 socks, was well into the loafer." Like there's no capslock on any keyboard in the world wrathful enough to fully express this level of violent anger. The shouting would go on for several minutes, sometimes accompanied by doors slamming, then he would slam out of the house. If I saw him on the sidewalk, he'd politely wish me a good morning, as if he hadn't just been wrathfully swearing and slamming doors not two minutes before. The first time, I thought maybe one of the dogs had crapped in his shoes or something. But it seems unlikely that the dogs could do this several times a week for two years. I mean how many shoes can a person buy before they get into the habit of, I don't know, putting their shoes on a high shelf or in a closet or something?

Granted, now that I work from home most days I have more opportunities to hear his outbursts. But it also seems to me that they are becoming more frequent. He never seems to become physically violent. His dogs do not behave like abused dogs do. When he's out walking them they run around his feet and wag their tails and seem generally stupid but behaviourally normal for stupid dogs—they don't cower, or start, or snap, and they don't seem to have injuries. They're a bit nervous, but I would be too if I lived with someone who shouted at me for inexplicable reasons.

I don't think there's anything we can do about Anger-Management Neighbour. It's not illegal to shout at your dogs, or to slam doors, or to randomly shout expletives before 11:00 p.m. But I'm worried about him, and about his girlfriend (honestly, I could not live with that much wrath threatening to explode all over the place.), and about their stupid yappy dogs. And, frankly, I don't enjoy hearing his wrathful outbursts. They're loud, and scary sounding, and generally do not improve the tenor of the day.

So what does one do? Start putting pamphlets for anger-management counselling in the mailbox? Shout "SHUT THE FUCK UP YOURSELF!" through the walls at night? Play opera (like maybe the mad scene from Lucia) really loudly so one can't hear the shouting? Discuss the problem with the landlord (seems like tattling)? Discuss the problem with the girlfriend (seems like a really overbearing thing to do). Move (dear gods, no!)?

The small garden in front of my house. A patch about 2 metres long by one metre deep, growing end-of-season lilies (leaves only -- the flowers are long gone), 2 rose bushes in mediocre health, a spill or orange nasturtiums, some lavender, and two bushy sage plants. On the steps to the house are pots of herbs.

Two woman were walking ahead of me up my street as I was coming home from the library.* As they walked past my house, one of them bent down and broke a leaf off my sage plant.**

"Hey!" I called to her back, "Hey! That's my plant you just damaged! That's my garden!"

"It's only half a leaf," she said.

"It doesn't matter," I explained, "This is a very busy corner. If everyone took a leaf as they walked by, I'd have no plant left! How would you like it if I went into your garden and picked your plants without asking you?"

"I don't have a garden, but if I did, I'd give you the plants," she said, apparently thinking I was being unreasonable.

"Stuff," I said, "Listen, lady, I went to a Catholic school. If you think I can't recognize an attempt to shame me, you've never known anyone who had a nun for a principal. Just don't go picking people's plants."

"Do you want the leaf back?"

"No, enjoy what you stole, please. Just don't go damaging people's gardens."

She shrugged and walked on.

You know, on Friday, the Cremini Kid and his dad were over. The Cremini Kid was looking at my nasturtiums and asked me if he could try a petal (he likes nasturtiums on salad). I said "Of course!" Because the seven-year-old Cremini Kid knew to ask. He recognized that as the person who planted and tended that garden, I might have other plans for my flowers. Because the seven-year-old Cremini Kid has some basic socialization and because his dad is doing a good job at teaching him about getting along in a community.

My garden is not a big garden. It fronts directly on to the sidewalk on a very busy corner—there's no lawn or fence separating it from the casual passer-by. So my poor garden sees a lot of abuse. People throw their rubbish into my plants. People steal plants. People barf on my lilies.*** I think all of these actions are signs of moral turpitude and the general unsuitability of the perpetrators to community life. I mean how difficult are these basic principles:

don't take stuff that isn't yours without asking;

clean up your messes and don't leave your rubbish or bodily emissions on other people's property; and

stay the heck off my lawn?****


Bushy, lush tip of a branch of a healthy sage plant. Three or four leaves have been broken in half, and their ends removed.

* Whither I had betaken myself to escape the siren song of the arboreal armageddon (read chainsaw shrieks and woodchipper gronching noises) taking place directly across from my house.
** The very sage plant that grew from the tiny sprig of sage left when someone ripped the entire sage plant out of my garden this spring. Said sage plant is now a large and healthy specimen, with many tasty leaves.
*** Yes, this really happened. I leaned over to smell my lovely, just-bloomed rose, and noticed that my lilies had quite a different odour. Sigh.
**** Or tiny front garden. Unless I invite you to frolic there.

We started choir practice tonight with Barber's Agnus Dei, which is a truly sublime piece of music. And we did it pretty well—it's not perfect yet, but enough members of the choir are familiar enough with it that the music holds together, and you can hear Barber's rich sonorities.

My choir practices in the sanctuary of a big old church on the Danforth. Lots and lots of groups use this church: on choir nights there's also a divorced dads' support group, a youth basketball group, and I think a 12-step program meeting elsewhere in the building. So a lot of people come and go. Sometimes people wander into the sanctuary where we're rehearsing. Tonight there was a man who didn't seem entirely clear on why we were there, or perhaps why he was there. But when we stopped, so that our conductor could fix something (probably in the bass section), the fellow very clearly said "Wow! That's the greatest thing I ever heard!"

At other points during the rehearsal, he offered commentary too. At one point the conductor looked sternly at him and said "Ssssshhh!" But that was all.

By the time we took our break, he was gone. I think he wandered off while we were working on "For Unto Us a Child Is Born."

I hope he carried some of the Barber with him. Because commentary or not, his reaction to the music was the kind of reaction that I want people to have to music like that. And I think those "wow" moments are the more precious when you're not expecting them.

I realize that this may come as news to you, so I shall break it gently.

There are volumes other than floor-shakingly loud.


Look at the volume control on your music player. It has options for louder and for softer. You can play your awful music at a volume that I can't hear through the shared wall.

Now turn your attention to the television, and examine the volume control on it. You will notice the same options. I recommend trying the less-loud versions. You will still find yourself able to hear the dialogue, honest. But I won't.

And when you speak—when, for example, you tell your yappy dog to STFU, or when you express your anger and displeasure as you so often do at 10h00 while I am getting down to work—you can do it without raising your voice, and sharing the details of your discussions with me, through the aforementioned shared wall.

Amazingly enough, this also applies to closing doors–it is possible to go into and out of rooms without informing your neighbours that you are doing so. And to walking!

I am sharing this information with you, because it seems clear to me that nobody ever has before. It cannot possibly be that you really have failed to consider that your neighbours might not appreciate your taste in music, television, movies, and that we might prefer not to hear your discussions. I believe that you must feel deeply torn, every time you want to listen to music or watch a movie, knowing that you are inflicting your taste on your neighbours. It is entirely likely that you fervently hope that we are not home, so that you can indulge in your preferred entertainment without disturbing us.

I know that if I had not known about this marvelous ability of modern technology to replay music at less than wall-shaking volume, it would be much more difficult for me to enjoy my love of fine opera.

But now, with this new information that I am sharing with you, you no longer need to worry about us! You can simply turn the volume down, lower your voices, and close the doors instead of slamming them.

I do hope this makes it possible for you to get through your days in a more pleasant, less stressful fashion.

Best regards,
Your neighbour, who works from home.

Community sing this Saturday, 14h30–17h30 at Chez Mushroom. If you need directions or details, e-mail me (thisusername at gmail dot com), and I will make sure you know where you are going. 

BYO: Songbooks/songsheets, comestibles, instruments, Bollywood dance routines.

In other news, the horny trees are making some very improper suggestions to my sinuses, and while I understand and respect the biological imperative, get yer spiky pollen out of my nose, trees!


You know where is not a good place to try to pick people up?

Okay, I know, there are many such places, among them the office, your class (if you're a teacher), and pretty much anywhere if you're a politician. But somewhere near the top of the list should be the waiting room at your medical clinic.

And if you're a men's rights activist, do you know who is even less likely than any other random female who was minding her own business and reading a book to want to get a drink with you after her doctor's appointment?

Okay, I know there are many such women. This is, after all, the waiting room for a doctor's appointment. Also, you are, after all, a men's rights activist, which means you're probably, though not certainly, an entitled, self-important douche with no sense of history, no understanding of your own privilege, and no notion that your advances might be unwelcome. But really, once someone tells you she's a radical feminist, you really should just cut your losses and pick up an outdated magazine.

Or did I miss a memo, and is Wednesday afternoon at the medical centre kind of like Wednesday Night at the Laundromat?

The longer version. No punchline, I'm afraid. )


Mayoral candidate Rocco Rossi is the sort of candidate my dad would have voted for: his proposed policies are ideologically right-of-centre, pro-business, pro-suburb.

The Empire Club apparently loves him.
Cut because Toronto is not the centre of the universe. It's just where I happen to live. )
There's a Tim Horton's almost across the street from my house. This means that at any hour of the day or night, I can look out my kitchen window, across the laneway and the parking lot, and see a police cruiser parked across Danforth. At eight o'clock in the morning, when parents are dropping their kids off at the school across the street, there's a police car there. At three o'clock in the afternoon, when people are enjoying the sun, buying veggies, and walking their dogs, there's a police car there. At seven o'clock in the evening, when I'm making dinner, and kids are playing in the square while their parents chat on the benches, there's a police car there.

Yet strangely, there's rarely a police officer present when I want one. During the wee hours of Sunday morning, for example, when a fine upstanding member of society is discussing the things she knows about things one can do with specific parts of the male anatomy, for example, nobody comes along to remonstrate with the individual or to ask her not to break the peace.

And last night, around 9:40 p.m., there was not a police officer to be seen.

I know.  I was looking for one. I saw old men meeting for coffee, and teenagers going for ice cream, and pseudo-hipsters hitting the cafés. I saw dog walkers and families. But I did not see any officers of the law.

See, DanceMistress had taken me out for dinner to thank me for putting her up. We'd had a nice dinner, and were headed back to my place, walking along Danforth from the subway station. She needed to acquire some Canadian cash, so we stopped at a bank machine. As we left the bank, a man enquired as to how our evening had gone. Being city people, and therefore not friendly at all with random importunate strangers, we ignored him, and he walked on by. Whatever. Danforth's busy that time of evening, and apparently people cruise even on a Monday.

DanceMistress had not been able to get any money from the machine (there had been some difficulty with her card), so we went into my bank, so that I could get some cash to spot her. Our importunate stranger was lounging outside my bank as we entered, and as we emerged, he again attempted to strike up a conversation with us. We ignored him, and continued.

He followed.

He followed more closely.

We ignored.

He asked one of us if we wanted to get freaky with him.

We ignored, and walked past the patio of a pub.

He asked why we had a problem with him.

I explained, in short words, that I had not asked him to speak to us, and that he should go away, as we walked past an open café.

He asked if I cared if he smoked. I said I did not care for anything he did, and that he should go away. We continued past another pub. He continued to follow us, as we got closer to the corner where Dictionopolis is located.

So I said to DanceMistress, who was becoming visibly tense, "I believe we'll just duck into Tim's for a coffee," and she acquiesced. Our follower stayed outside, waiting outside the door of the brightly lit doughnut shop, across the street from the square that is across the street from my house.

And of course, once I was inside, I looked for a police officer. To no avail.

So we went out the side door, and looped around through the schoolyard, across Danforth, through Carrot Common, and along the path from the subway station, to come at the house from an entirely different direction. As we approached the house, I could see the corner where we'd left him staring at the fountain across the street. He'd given up—I assume he'd found someone else to harass, and I'm really hoping it wasn't the three teenaged girls who passed us, going into the Tim's as we were leaving.

I should perhaps have warned them.

So, I ask you, what on Earth is the point of having a Tim Horton's across the street, if you can't find a police officer when you're being followed home by a creepy stranger?
The Random Queers will be marching in this year's Pride Parade

"Who?" you say: The Random Queers—a group for anyone who is queer and is not affiliated with another group. Heck, anyone who identifies as queer and is affiliated with another group, but wants to march with us!

When? The Parade will take place Sunday, June 28. We meet at 1:00 p.m, and wait around for a bit until we start marching at around 2:00, or maybe 2:30.

Where? We meet on Bloor St. between Church and Jarvis. Our marshalling number is 321, which, as [personal profile] mycrazyhair  points out, is very easy to remember. So find the spot on the ground labelled 321. Alternatively, look for the RANDOM QUEERS banner.

What Do I Need? You need a way to travel with the group—a sturdy pair of shoes, a wheelchair, whatever. We are a "marching group," so you need to be able to carry anything you bring—we don't have a vehicle. Do bring water. Do wear sunscreen. Do bring whatever you can carry that is less than 12 feet tall that will help you to express your fabulosity.

Why? To express your sexuality and queerness. To be part of the community. To send the world a message. To be part of the fabulosity. Because it's a paradeFor the cookies!

If you are queer, unaffiliated, and looking to express your queer life, history, and/or general fabulousness, we invite you to join us. We have cookies, and much awesomeness.

P.S. Pass it on!

zingerella: Capital letter "Z" decorated with twining blue and purple vegetation (Default)
( Jun. 20th, 2009 10:31 am)

Ahoy Random Queers and Friends!

We have a space in the parade! The parade is next Sunday! I am the official (or at least on-paper) Random Queers chief cat-herder, and I am going to a meeting today to learn Important Details about the Parade—like where our marshalling space is.

[personal profile] northbardAlso, we have cookies!
Pride Cookies!

Or rather, I currently have some sad, pale vegan sugar cookies waiting to be made fabulous. I will be bringing the cookies, some icing, sparkles, colours, icing tubes, paintbrushes and other implements of sweet awesomeness to captainmushroom's house tomorrow. I welcome cookie-decorating elves, fairies, and other assistants. There are not as many cookies as there were last year, I promise.

Details for Cookie Decorating
Time: 1:00–4:00 p.m.
Location: The Planet of the Mushrooms aka Captain Mushroom's house (e-mail me for address if you don't have it)
What to bring: Cookie-decorating implements if you have them. Yourself. Whatever.

You can check our Facebook group for last year's Parade information and some photos (and a few Discussion posts about this year). I'll post this year's information there as well as here as soon as I get it.

Pass it on!

zingerella: Capital letter "Z" decorated with twining blue and purple vegetation (Default)
( Jun. 16th, 2009 10:30 am)
Cycling through the valley, this morning, I noticed the unmistakable squoodgy feeling of an incipient flat in my rear tire. So I found a long stretch of path through a meadow, where people could see me from both directions, and where there was some space to pull off the path, stopped, and checked.

Sure enough, a tack had buried itself in my rear tire, from which the air was gently, but assuredly, hissing.

Took off the pannier, and found the patch kit. Disengaged the rear brake. Flipped the bike over and took the rear wheel off. Started to pull out the inner tube.

A grizzled cyclist in spandex shorts stopped. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yep," said I, "just a flat. No biggie!"

"You sure?"

"Yep, thanks!"

He cycled on. I extracted the inner tube, and found the puncture. Opened the patch kit. A cyclist in a bright jersey and mirror sunglasses slowed.

"Need a hand?"

"No, thanks! I'm good!"

"Okay!" He cycled on.

I roughed up the area around the puncture. Dabbed it with glue. Waited for the glue to dry. A couple of old guys with stuff lashed all over their bikes stopped.

"You need a hand?"

"Thanks! I'm good!"

They cycled on.

Another guy stopped as I was putting the newly patched inner tube back on the wheel, to ask if I needed a pump. I had one, but thanked him. Someone else offered me a hand as I put the wheel back on the bike.

All in all, in the 20 minutes or so that I was stopped by the side of the path, calmly patching my tire, at least seven people stopped to make sure I was okay, and to offer help.

I love my town.
My good friend Katie (known to some as Fiddlegirl) has a band, and said band is playing at the Tranzac this Sunday, 17h00–19h00.

I plan to be there, and if you're in the city and like folk music, you should too.

That is all.



zingerella: Capital letter "Z" decorated with twining blue and purple vegetation (Default)


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