A month ago, a world away

And this long, long month ends.  I look back at the end of last month, at a different time, a different world.  I was aware of the coming pandemic; it's in my journals, but it was still so far away.

I donned my commuter coat on a cold Saturday, because it was the last day of February, and an extra one at that, and it was my very last chance to catch the One Tree Exhibit.

This happens every two years, and I was determined to make my way to the Robert Bateman Centre (which used to be the Royal Wax Museum), because a) I missed the last one in 2018; and b) a gifted wood craftsman, who went to high school with the Resident Fan Boy and who used to be married to the friend who introduced me to the Resident Fan Boy, was listed as one of the participants. You could say he was a classic Victoria connection, the city where everyone is separated by three degrees, rather than six.

The One Tree Project works like this: an ancient tree that has to come down because it’s reached the end of its lifespan is divided amongst 80-100 artists and artisans. The tree for this year’s project was a Big-Leaf Maple, which stood for more than two centuries near Westholme in the Chemainus River Valley, on Halalt First Nation traditional land. It was on the farm of the Barclay family for a very long time.

I arrived at the Bateman Centre, and, being my first visit, went into the Gift Shop to purchase tickets, not knowing tickets were available at the door upstairs. (I was later very glad I did.)

Once upstairs, I moved quickly through the exhibit, using my usual museum strategy – noting stuff that “called” to me, so I could zoom in on them during my second round. Of course, I was mainly looking for the gifted wood craftman's contribution; having owned three of his pieces (made specifically for us), I figured I’d spot them.

After moving through twice, seeing furniture, sculptures, paper, art, jewelry, anything you could possibly make from a tree, I hadn’t located his work. Finally, I found an interactive exhibit, which showed the tree, as it had stood in the farm. You could choose a section of the tree and see the names of the artists and craftspeople associated with it. I recognized few names on the list, and the one for which I was looking wasn't there. Since he was on the initial list, and participated in 2018 (I think it was an oak tree that time), I think he must have been signed up and for whatever reason, didn’t have a submission. I knew several of the craftspeople involved this year were former students of his – including his current wife, who works with him in their woodworking business up-Island.

Guess whose work called to me? I've failed to find a picture that does it justice. It’s a medium-sized casket/jewelry box, with removable sections and divisions inside. A map embossed on the lid shimmers and undulates. Apparently the craftswoman specializes in something called “marquetry” – creating pictures using different types and colours of wood. I overheard a couple commenting on the high level of craftsmanship, and later, when I returned to the gift shop, the lady told me that particular piece sold on the first day of the exhibit, way back in November for about $1200, and that her skill-level had been the finest many experts had seen.

*Not* the cajóns I saw

Another piece, from another artisan, that intrigued me was a cajón, which is a kind of Peruvian percussion instrument. There was a smaller one in the gift shop, and when I asked about it, the lady was kind enough to find two videos on her phone for me. Apparently the drummer from Tears for Fears, if you please, made a special visit to the exhibit, and with permission, tried the cajón out.

And I hurried home into the morning sun, thinking of what I'd seen, of the beautiful box, of the woman who had made it, and how very much she looks like my friend, the gifted wood craftsman's first wife.

The privileges of irritation

The Resident Fan Boy is beginning his third week of working from home, which entails his work laptop on the dining room table, phone conferences, and video meetings.

That's not so bad. I can work around him. I can visit Demeter.

The tough thing is, RFB's volunteer work has also followed him home.

At various times of the day, and also on weekends - especially Sundays - our computer screen fills up with the faces of church volunteers, people who are mostly retired, and for whom such meetings are a welcome distraction.

For me, it's a bit like the 1990 movie Truly, Madly, Deeply, in which the heroine finds her home filled with her deceased lover's music-playing, video-watching dead friends. It spurs her to move beyond her lover's death and find a new love.

Not exactly an option for me; I'm still reasonably fond of the Resident Fan Boy.

Besides, if I needed perspective, it arrived in the form of a tweet this morning. Of course, I can't find it now - the volume of tweets on Twitter these days is considerable - but I believe it came from India, and the gist of it was this: Social distance is a privilege. Self-isolation is a privilege. Even a lock-down is a privilege. Many people don't have the personal space to "social distance" themselves. Many do not have comfortable homes in which to self-isolate - or a home at all, which means hand-washing is a hell of a challenge - to say nothing of WiFi. Let's not even get into the financial hardships being created/exacerbated by this thing.

A few tweets later, in an unfortunate juxtaposition, came this viral video. It's very popular. With people with large kitchens backing on a garden with parents who miss dining out.


Our kitchen is a tiny little galley kitchen, and our dining room is a corner near the window that would look over the parking lot, if not for the translucent reeded glass window. However, we have a large window overlooking the landscaping and the road beyond. The Resident Fan Boy has work. We have a home. We're together and, so far, everyone is healthy.

We'll skip the sommelier.

Signs of the times

Click to enlarge and read the children's message.

One of the things we rather like about our building is the variety of residents.

Not that we see much of them these days.

Among our number are retirees, young professionals, students, and four families with young children - the latest are our neighbours, a couple of willowy lawyers who gave birth to a daughter about two weeks ago. We didn't know until five days after her birth, when we heard what younger daughter described as an angry cat.

That's life lately, snatches of sound, and glimpses of movement. The hallways are deserted. It's even easy to get time in the laundry room.

This morning, I headed out to pick up some milk for Demeter, apparently the last time I'll be permitted to use my own cloth bags for shopping. It was colder than I'd anticipated, despite the bright sunshine, so I doubled back to get my coat.

That's when I noticed the signs taped beside the front door of my building.

What a strange time to be growing up. What will they remember?

Kicking at the darkness

Elder daughter has been flattened by the COVID-19 crisis.

No, she doesn't have it, but it has struck at a crucial time of transition for her, and has put all her dreams on hold. She posted this on social media yesterday, saying it gives her "casual full body chills". I think I know what she means, but am not sure why they are "casual" - it's an adjective she uses a lot.


She's too young to remember the original.

I'm not.



When elder daughter was about two months away from being born, the Barenaked Ladies, who were almost, but not quite, famous (and still had Steven Page), had this cover all over the airwaves. It's, arguably, an improvement on the original. The video is brimming with Canadian nostalgia and self-deprecation. Also early-nineties-style jeans and jackets.

And this copy is wildly low-definition.

As a Canadian, I can only say, "Sorry".

Sedate gate-crashers

We were out for a socially-distanced walk when keen-eyed younger daughter spotted the five deer a few houses ahead. I squinted, and managed to catch the movement. Urban deer certainly blend in well with the surroundings, particularly in early spring. I shot rather blindly across the street, and I can only make out about three deers in this resulting photo.

They made their way up the avenue and between the houses, searching for and finding fresh spring snacks. (Poor house-bound gardeners.)

Then one of the youngsters spotted something.

She sprung over the fence, light as air.

The others followed.

Except an older member of the quintet, who walked the length of the fence with graceful dignity, and entered by the gate. (I can only see four deer in this photo. They really blend in well.)

But I get quiet and I get lonely just like everyone

Mary Chapin Carpenter's music soothed me in the 1990's and into the cold and lonely aughts. This song is ten years old, and I never heard it until this week.

There are some blessings in this strange time. These "social-distancing" videos are among them.

(And you rarely get such articulate comments for a YouTube video. Believe me.)


Her dog and cat are irresistible.

The longest spring

The past couple of weeks have taken on the slower pace of a holiday, like Christmastime, or the summer -- with rather less joy and enjoyment.

It seems like an age since Sophie Grégoire Trudeau returned from the UK with her own case of COVID-19. As Justin Trudeau joined her in self-isolation (in a different part of the house, it should be hastily added), it seemed to plunge Canada into the reality of the threat, and for the past fourteen days, the noose has tightened.

Today, I went to the grocery store for the first time in a couple of days, and noted the prevalence of face-masks and the shoppers carefully avoiding each other in a fashion that simply wasn't the norm a short time ago -- which seems like an eternity. We're Canadian, so we smile apologetically.

Except when we don't.

Spring comes any way

I'm on record as loving Appalachian Spring by Aaron Copland, so you can imagine what a balm this was to my spirit yesterday morning.

These are some members of the Toronto Symphony, playing a brief excerpt from their respective homes.

If you can put the video to as large a screen available, that will enhance the effect.

What can't be unseen

"Land of the eagle" - Audun Rikardsen - Norway

This is a photograph.

It was obtained through the effort, endurance, and patience of three years.

The photographer set up a branch on a ledge, attached a camera to it, built himself a hide nearby, and made the branch more attractive to eagles by hanging meat on it. After three years (three years), an eagle got accustomed to the set-up, and visited regularly.

This photo was the winner in the "Behaviour: Birds" category of the Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2019. It was one of my personal favourites. I had several other favourites, like this one,

"Summer Cornfield" - Joël Brunet - France

which was "Highly Commended" in the "Plants and Fungi" category.

Every year, the Royal British Columbia Museum is one of the few hosts of the display resulting from the competition. (I think there are only three venues in Canada.) Demeter has been going for years, and younger daughter and I have attended for the past three exhibitions. Younger daughter insists on carefully reading the description on each photo, including the camera settings. I've found the best way to accommodate this is by going about five times, which is enough time for younger daughter to carefully examine each of the hundred photos.

It's a little nerve-wracking, because her strategy is to stand sideways by the corner of each photo, and read the captions aloud, going back and repeating if she is deciphering a new word, or distracted by someone approaching to view the image, as they tend to do in an exhibition.

A pair of elderly ladies came up behind her, and asked her to move. I quickly pointed out that there was an excellent vantage point from where I was standing, leaning in to quietly say: "She reads out loud to process..."

They hastily backed off, and actually apologized to younger daughter, while I cringed inwardly.

Last year, the exhibit ended before younger daughter had had a chance to "process" all the images, so this year, I carefully noted the ending date of March 29th.

Of course the museum shut down on March 17th, but luckily, we had got in our five visits, with all the photos thoroughly viewed.

The Wildlife Photographer of the Year is a collection of jaw-dropping photos, illustrating the fragility of our eco-system, and how an image is a result of days, months, or years of patient waiting - or simply being in the right place with an adequate camera. Way too few women amongst the photographers, and a couple of photos I can't un-see.

So I won't show them to you. You can google "Wildlife Photographer 2019", and guess.

I will save the world by lying on my couch

This Randy Rainbow parody reminds me of both my daughters.

Elder daughter, who has been huddled in her Ottawa apartment for the past week, working from home, is appalled because, as she is getting necessary supplies, so many people she encounters are not observing the holy protocols of staying two meters away from others, nor coughing into their elbows. She would heartily agree with the closing line.

Younger daughter, who, as someone on the autistic spectrum, is rather a self-isolator anyway, would object to the swearing, but recognized the song being parodied -- which is more than I did. It's from the Disney animated film Hercules; I've never seen it.

No one you can save that can't be saved

These times call for nostalgia.

No, I don't mean the Beatles.

I mean six musicians performing in a pub.

With less than six feet between them.

Sidewalk supervision

I'm seriously considering banishing my Facebook feed. My "Facebook Friends" are, on the whole, being upbeat. (The ones I still follow, anyway.) However, I follow CBC, BBC, the Times-Colonist, our local television news, and PBS Newshour, all reasonably reputable news sources, but, these days, they're proving to be a rather lethal combination.

This morning, they announced that the Victoria Day Parade is being cancelled. For the first time ever.

Yesterday, younger daughter and I were on our way to our last art lesson for heaven knows when. (Two students elected not to come, and the three remaining discussed why we had taken the risk. Mostly because we feel we must do things while it's still allowed.) Word had come through my Facebook feed that there will be fewer buses, due to the lack of ridership, and I wondered if our scheduled bus would show up. It did, with a flashing "Free Bus" on the front, and a scrawled sign telling us to board at the back. When we reached Oak Bay Avenue, a young woman tore her attention from her phone, and stood for a few seconds, wondering why the driver wouldn't open the front door. When she boarded by the back, one of our four fellow passengers snarled: "Can't you read?"

And the day before that, I arrived at my favourite coffee shop to find the patio table-less and chair-less. I stood for a few seconds in the doorway, surveying the bare floor, as it sunk in that there would be take-out only. I turned and left. I might get the courage to go back, but I go to a coffee house for a table to journal on, not to sip coffee from cardboard.

Pic-a-Flic is still open, but the small restaurant where younger daughter and I have our Friday lunch before picking out our weekly DVDs has closed indefinitely. Younger daughter and I made the pilgrimage anyway, past the blossoming magnolias on Linden Avenue, up to Fort Street, where a sidewalk-chalk-philosopher had been at work.

Younger daughter and I paused to absorb the message, then walked on, giving our handful of fellow pedestrians wide berth.

And a dog with a tail like a metronome

A Barenaked Ladies parody.

Nova Scotian musicians (probably in Halifax).

And it's probably pretty accurate.

For now.

Things keep changing every day.

You have to break a few eggs

I should have accepted the offer.

My local grocery store is quite busy these mornings with white-haired people buying groceries, mostly fruit and vegetables.

One of them is a women clad in a grey tracksuit. She sees that I have a small block of Havarti in my hand and offers to let me go ahead. I decline; she doesn't have that many groceries.

What she does have is a single paper bag. The cashier is trying to tell her that it's not quite big enough for the selection of fruits and vegetables, plus three cartons of eggs. She insists she'll be all right, turning to tell me that the reason we're in this panic is our weakened immune systems from over-medicating ourselves.

Now she has an over-packed paper bag, a pack-sack in which she's stuffed a few items with what was already in there, her cane, and three (3) dozen eggs. She's planning to carry them down to her motorscooter, waiting out on the sidewalk, by the middle of the exit-ramp with her two dogs. The cashier has vanished.

Oh gawd, I think. I have to help her.

I get the eggs in a secure grip, but she's trying to pick up the paper bag and her packsack, while feeling for her cane, so I balance the eggs against my body and pull the bag into the crook of my arm.

You can guess what happens next.

Nothin' to do but make a quick exit, around a couple of fellow customers, who are doing their best to corral twelve yolks with the remains of the carton.

I make my way down the ramp, and let her fuss over packing her fruits, veggies, and two cartons of eggs. I'm apologizing profusely, but she says she'll simply go back in and get another carton.

"I won't have to pay for them," she says.

I tell her I'll wait with her groceries and her dogs. She smiles radiantly at me.

"You're so kind," she beams.

She emerges triumphantly minutes later. "They just waved me out. Have I told you why we're in this panic?"

I wait while she packs the last of her 36 eggs, and tells me all about depleted immune systems. I figure I owe her that.

Spaced out

A week ago, at 9:30 am, my favourite coffee house was packed.

To the right of the entrance, a ring of about fifteen older people clustered around a tiny table.

They kept coming to my favourite side of the coffee house to purloin chairs, as more and more of them arrived. I put my coat on the floor to accommodate them, and thought grumpily about the two old ladies seated at my favourite table, in my favoured chairs (the old rounded ones that don't cripple me) gazing at their phones, before finally getting down to chatting with each other.

I rather missed them this morning. A week later, and half the tables had been taken off the patio, so that those who did dare to stay to drink their coffee from cardboard cups (no china cups or plates allowed today) would be able to sit the prescribed six feet apart.

I dared to stay, taking a table in the wrong end of the coffee shop, having lifted down one of the older and more comfortable chairs from the stack on the bench, where, up until yesterday, the laptop users perched next to the power outlets. I was not quite six feet from the man to my right, but he was on a stool by the window ledge, facing away from me, so I imagine I was safe enough.

I made out my bullet journal, setting up April. One goal for that month: "Survive". Couldn't face making any others. I wrote in the dates and days, as you do with a bullet journal, something about the process, I guess. I wrote in Easter, and wondered how Easter will be with all the churches closed, and then I remembered the Resident Fan Boy plans to be out of town for my birthday - provided travel is possible. To my astonishment, my eyes welled with tears. I put them away.

As I left the proprietor wiped down my table with disinfectant and thanked me for coming.

By the skin of their teeth

The bad news: there was a major dental convention in Vancouver in early March. Someone with COVID made a brief appearance on March 5th. Now the 15,000 dental delegates have to go into "self-isolation" for two weeks. All elective dental procedures across BC are cancelled.

The good news? Younger daughter's dental cleaning got moved from March 11th to March 4th, the day before the contaminated delegate showed up in Vancouver. Whew.

Demeter's dental cleaning, scheduled for 1:30 this afternoon, got cancelled at 12:30. Double whew.

In other news, Demeter decided, given that her afternoon had suddenly been freed up, to drop by the library, where she picked up five books. A couple of hours later, all Victoria branches closed indefinitely.

This is like watching a car crash in slow motion.

A person could develop COVID

Journaling in the half-empty coffee shop this morning (where I'm not sure I should be, anyway), it occurred to me that my daily entries are rapidly turning into a plague diary.

Thank goodness, Randy Rainbow had something new on YouTube. It's about coranovirus, unavoidably, and neatly itemizes many of my concerns (I even have a pink bathrobe), but hell, you gotta laugh!



Don't you?

Intimations of mortality

Earlier this week, I felt the warmth of the sun for the first time this year. By Friday, though, the sun was washed out by a nest of grey, shining though with a silvery-white spotlight.

It's cold. The coffee-shops and restaurants have fewer customers. I don't see as many cars on the street, although there seem to be more cyclists, who may be avoiding public transit. Next-to-no dog-walkers. Poor dogs.

With the announcement that the Prime Minister's wife is infected with COVID-19, and is in "self-isolation" with the PM and their three children, things began shutting down. One of the first institutions in Victoria to go was the Symphony, understandably, given the median age of its subscribers.

Fortunately for us, our tickets for this season were used up in early February, back when the news was all about impeachment and Brexit. (Good times.)

It was the eve of Demeter's big birthday, which had put us all in mind of our own respective mortalities. Then the Resident Fan Boy and I went to hear a "Naked Classics" version of Tchaikovsky's Pathétique Symphony (No. 6). This is an event where the first half is a dissection of the work, while the second half is the piece itself.

The Pathétique Symphony was one of the pieces I studied when I indulged myself in a Music Appreciation course, when I was studying for a diploma in Applied Linguistics, and sneaking in electives for which I'd had no time when doing my undergraduate degree.

I haven't listened to the Sixth Symphony in years, but mainly remembered the four highly recognizable themes of each movement: the "footsteps of fate" closing of the first movement, the 5/4 faux waltz of the second movement, the frantic 6/8 scherzo overlaying the third movement, and the "sobbing" strings of the fourth.

When I was taking the course years ago, the received wisdom was that Tchaikovsky committed suicide shortly after this symphony premiered in October 1893, by deliberately drinking contaminated water and dying, horribly, of cholera. Apparently, they're not so certain of that anymore.

Our host, accompanied by a PowerPoint presentation, and live demonstrations of his points from the Victoria Symphony, went through Tchaikovsky's "plan" for the symphony: Life-force - Love - Disappointment - Death. The strings demonstrated that the descending main theme in the fourth movement is, in fact, a sort of trompe d'oreille, created by the first and second violins playing completely different melodies. Our attention was also drawn to the beating-heart effect in the same movement -- which eventually slows and stops. In performance after intermission, the lights dimmed, and the orchestra disappeared into darkness.


It's so odd re-visiting this symphony after first experiencing it as a twenty-something, when I found it just a bit over-the-top. Hearing it again all these years later, I appreciated it, recognized it, yet found it profoundly sad and disturbing. The pushing insistence of Life, followed by the falling short of one's dreams, and the descent into death. Cuts a bit close, these days.

I'm not sorry I went, but am somehow grateful that I didn't get it in my twenties. That would be profoundly sad and disturbing indeed.

Does Spotify read my blog?

This showed up on my "Friday Radar" (new releases Spotify thinks I might like) today.

A bit of escapism

We started watching a DVD of selections from Not Only But Also - Dudley Moore's and Peter Cook's sketch show from the mid-1960's - for the John Lennon guest shots. We stayed for the "Dud and Pete", the genesis of the "Leaping Sisters of St Beryl" (later to be featured in Bedazzled), the poetry (yes, really), and the jazz music.

Dudley Moore was an accomplished pianist with his own jazz trio, and this charming duet with singer Marian Montgomery is a diversion I sorely needed today.

Jazz singer Marian Montgomery was a few months older than Dudley Moore; they both died in 2002 - within a few months of each other.

Pharmacy troll

The Resident Fan Boy was leaving the drugstore with a large package of toilet paper and some boxes of tissues when the stranger confronted him.

"Toilet paper," he sneered.

The RFB was baffled and off-guard. "It was on sale," he protested.

"Stocking up, eh?" said his accuser. "You're just feeding into the panic."

There's not much you can say to such people, I guess. The Resident Fan Boy shrugged, and headed home.

Getting philosophical at the bus stop (write of passage number fifty-two)

Younger daughter and I are late. Again.

I decide to save time by trying for the bus. We approach the stop nearest our home, where three elderly people wait. I ask the closest lady if a bus is coming soon.

There is a long pause, long enough that I'm beginning to wonder if I have been understood.

"Soon?" she says finally, in an accent that sounds faintly east European. "Is five minutes soon?"

Ah. A philosopher. Just what I need.

She turns to the other two, a couple standing far enough away that she has to raise her voice a little.
"You'll see," she tells them, as if continuing a previous conversation. They look mildly startled. (Younger daughter begins to reply, then realizes the lady isn't speaking to us.)
"If he's a male driver, he'll roll right up to the sign, which is tough for us, because of the grass, but easier on anyone getting out the back, because they'll step on the pavement. If it's a woman, she'll stop at the pavement back there." She points.

Almost immediately, a bus appears. The driver is female. She pulls up to the sign. The Bus Philosopher shrugs, and clambers on.

Later in the afternoon, younger daughter and I walk in from downtown, because it's downhill, only takes about fifteen to twenty minutes, and we're no longer in a hurry.

As we reach our home block, the bus draws up alongside us and the Bus Philosopher staggers out, clutching large shopping bags and boxes.

"You made it!" she informs us, and plods away.

Unfortunately, I get out quite a bit...

This appeared at my local coffee shop a few weeks ago. I don't know if I can confirm Douglas Coupland wrote it, but if he did, he wrote it when people were still watching television and before social media really took hold.

Something that is

The eye is round and rather a bright blue.

It belongs to a large, older man who is seated in one of the armchairs at the edge of the coffee shop. He's holding a Times-Colonist up close to his face, and is clearly not reading it, because his left eye is peering around the side edge of the newspaper, and it's fixed on me, as I arrange the chair, and place my journals across the table I intend to use. Two or three times, I gaze back at him, keeping my face neutral. The eye does not blink.

I go get my coffee.

I ignore him for the rest of the morning.

A standard sunset

Hurrying home from Demeter's, I saw a crisp, not-quite-full full moon swinging up into the sky. I glanced over my shoulder to the west, and picked up my pace, heading straight through the building entrance to the elevator, where I rose to the fifth floor, turned right, and through the door that leads to the roof.

There's talk of moving to Pacific Daylight Time permanently. I'm not sure how great an idea this is; plenty of health researchers are not in favour.

This may be the last Pacific Standard Time sunset in British Columbia.

What you really really want?

I was a mum of little girls in the 1990s.

You know what that means, don't you?

Elder daughter was so obsessed with the Spice Girls that, at age six, she phoned the video store on her own, to reserve a copy of Spice World. (Oh gawd. Spice World. How many times did I have to sit through that?)

I was dressing younger daughter (about two), one morning, when she suddenly yelled "Baskers! Baskers!" It was only when I followed her downstairs that I realized it was because elder daughter, having borrowed the CD from someone at school, was playing Spice Girls music in the living room, where I couldn't hear from upstairs, but sharp-eared younger daughter could.

After years of "girl power", I finally get my reward.

Whoops apocalypse

Oh gawd. Just before waking, I dreamt that Alex Trebek was gesturing to me, indicating the safe way to negotiate a sidewalk blocked and surrounded by some sort of construction. (Actually, a way of life in Victoria, which is in a frenzy of pipe replacement and condo-building these days.)

I reached a place of relative safety beside Mr Trebek, and we paused to chat about gardening decisions in the wake of the construction. I perused the plantations fronting what was apparently my building -- odd, considering it was neither my actual home, and I do not garden, but that's typical of my dreams, which usually involve things I don't do and places I don't frequent.

I turned to Alex Trebek, and he had flung his arm around the shoulder of William F. Buckley Junior - a big clue that this wasn't real - and then Alex Trebek made some sort of apocalyptic statement while gazing into what looked like molten lava bubbling out of the building. I struggled for a polite and appropriate remark, thinking: This is all very well for him; he'll be dead soon.

Then I thought: So will we all.

Not, on the whole, a pleasant vision from which to awake. I think world headlines must be getting to me: Australia blazing away, kids dying from the cold in Syria, locusts in East Africa, some dang virus causing people to stock up and racial-profile...

As for the real Alex Trebek, he doesn't seem to have any plans to die soon.

The importance of looking up

On a crisp sunny morning, the huge old trees that line Chester Avenue are stripped of last year's leaves -- it took a while -- and one can see things.

But only if you look up. I looked up and saw a holly bush growing out of an ancient trunk. How long has that been there?

I don't do that dance no more

One cool thing about living in Victoria is that I don't have to stay up until 11:30 to watch Saturday Night Live.

Mind you, if I PVR it, I also don't have to sit through interminable commercial breaks.

There is a certain thrill, though, in knowing what you're watching is going on at that very moment. Or with a two-second delay for bad language...

Last Saturday's thrill was seeing David Byrne, in an impeccable grey suit, and bare feet, performing with a large group of musicians/dancers/singers -- all in impeccable grey suits and bare feet.

This song was written in 2008, I think.


It was the second song they performed, and I understand that, on Saturday Night Live, the second song is the one the musical guest artist actually wants to perform. The first one is usually a big hit.

This one certainly is. It's from 1980.

Just for the record, David Byrne is 67.

I'm not obsessed with Hallowe'en, but I love my mother.

Awards season is long over. I saw most of them, despite really not being that fussed about the majority of nominees. I liked JoJo Rabbit; I liked A Marriage Story. If either had won, I would have been well pleased. Neither won for Best Movie, but JJR got Best Adapted Screenplay, and Laura Dern won Best Supporting Actress.

One awards show I didn't see was the Independent Spirit Awards. I don't think it was televised, not on a channel I could get, anyway. However, this clip turned up on social media, and I've played it repeatedly, partially because it's adorable, and partially because I'm not gay enough to totally get it.

I get bits of it. (I'm not totally unevolved.)


Demeter, by the way, is much better. Thanks for asking.

Going agley (or whatever the Welsh variation might be)

I had such plans for today.

It's St David's Day, of course, and the Resident Fan Boy picked up a generous bunch of daffodils yesterday. (Some years, they're scarce, but there's an abundance today.)

I headed into the cluster of shops near us and picked out two daffodil-bunches for Demeter: one opened and one nearly opened. "No bag," I told the cashier. "I'll just carry them to my mother like a kid heading home from school."

Demeter has whatever was laying me low a week ago, a nasty cluster of colly-wobbles and chills, seasoned with an afterglow of enervation.

When I got to her apartment, she'd become scary-sick, needing help to negotiate the trip to her ensuite bathroom, and refusing food, drink, and medication. That last item was particularly worrying, as she has the usual stack of medications required from a person her age. I stood over her and (gently, I swear!) persuaded her to take her morning pills, then controlled my panic as she nearly choked on them.

Spent the afternoon in her living room, staying within earshot, and ditching my plans to attend a St-David's-Day-themed cemetery tour. (Hey, you have your thrills; I have mine.)