Lovely Sunday morning and there's a fair bit of loafing around, reading, making luscious breakfast, I mean brunch, editing photos and eventually getting showered to go out and catch up with the Santa Claus parade making its way down toward St. Lawrence market. As it happens, my fault, we don't get out the door in time and as we walk down Wellington Street, we find a lot of families heading home and what looks like a massive advertisement for Tim Horton's plastered all over the street. If what Tim's is advertising is garbage.
The crowds are a little less charming after the parade than they might be during the parade and it's a relief to duck into the cozy and quiet little Cést What for some fine ale and snack of warm cheese with carmelized onions, and warm pretzels and broccoli for dipping.
Later we walk home in the twilight and I'm thinking the colour of that sky is more beautiful than any old parade float any day.
It's rainy and blustery here, but nothing serious so far. The sky doesn't give any indication of the size of that cloud formation, which swirls over a large part of the Atlantic and a significant part of America.
I'm itching to get home tonight, but I stop and think about how small I am, how small my city is, in relation to that cloud.
Last night, Friday, I get home early and make split pea soup. Ceri comes over and we open a bottle of wine Leonard gave us last weekend. D'Angelo Foch, bottled, we note, when my 27 year old youngest daughter was 11. Len wasn't sure if it would be wine or vinegar, but it sure is wine and we linger over it.
Later Ceri takes off to go prepare for his trip back home, and then Cathy comes over - she'd come into town for a colleague "transition party" and some sister time. We drink more wine and talk and she sleeps over.
Saturday, it's sunny, clear and gorgeous and we decide to walk over to the market and to have brunch on a patio. When the sun's out, it's hot; when the clouds cover it, it's cool. That picture up there - it's me hanging on to the sun moments. We are not ready to give up outdoor meals yet.
It's been a really good three quarters of a day.
I get home from the long work day after a weekend of fun, after riding in the rain and wet streets, and as I'm locking up my bike I see this rainbow showing itself between a gap in the clouds. It's kind of like the universe is saying, "Aw c'mon, it's not so bad! You get a short work week, and it's autumn! Autumn is nice! Happy up kid!"
Sunday. We lounge a little over coffee, and then head out for a bike ride out to the Beaches and back, with the idea that we'll have brunch on a patio on our return. I have two of these with that excellent brunch.
Later, we buy some veg and wine for dinner later and then go hang out on my building's rooftop and watch the CNE's annual air show. There is more than one reason that air shows creep me out. One is related to a recurring nightmare I had back in a former life, which always culminated in a small plane crash. In a harbour. Much like the harbour sitting underneath these dipping and twirling machines.
The other creep factor is the raw fear the sound of the fighter jets in particular awake in me. For a moment, as it roars overhead, higher and higher, preparing for its hurtling dive back to earth, I am rendered frozen, hands tingling, heart racing.