Friday, 14 October 2016
Are potatoes actually vegetables?
He's walking behind me and I think he's talking to younger daughter who's always a couple of paces to my rear. Maybe I should just re-name her Euridyce for this blog.
"I used to deliver them to the First Nations depot up north," he continues. Younger daughter has caught up with me at the light. I catch her eye, and she grins.
The man catches up with us as well. He's wearing a backpack over a sleeveless shirt on this brisk October morning. He doesn't appear to be looking at us, but his sunglasses make it hard to tell. I surreptitiously check for a blue-tooth or earbuds, but no, we seem to be his audience. When I hesitate, trying to decide whether to cross the street now or a block later, he also halts, turning his back on us.
There's the fruit and vegetable delivery truck we've just passed; he's still talking about it: "I was up north, with the First Nations. It was years ago."
Abruptly, he starts talking to the traffic signal.
"C'mon, change! You've been red too long!"
I guess we're off the hook.