Guess before I finish this song

For a good chunk of the day, I've had an ear-worm from Sesame Street: "One of these things is not like the other..."

The good news is that so far, younger daughter and I have tested negative for COVID today.  We took the tests for the first time, guided by elder daughter from England via Skype -- who's had COVID twice, and sometimes tests on a daily basis.

The Resident Fan Boy, who had been feeling off-colour for two days, and hadn't told me, was waiting for me when I returned from doing Demeter's laundry this morning.  He was promptly banished to the master bedroom, in order to self-isolate, and cancel this week's upcoming surgical procedure.

Younger daughter and I will continue to test throughout the week, and say a few prayers.

You can too, if you're that way inclined...

I'm sorry, I don't have a queue

There are a lot of things I don't understand.  Tennis is one of them.

I once had a friend "kidnap" me to a tennis court.  Minutes later, we climbed back in his car.

"You're right, you can't play tennis."  I'd been telling him that for years.

What I know about tennis could be written on a scrap of paper.  In large letters.  I do know that if the Resident Fan Boy is watching it on television and the court is red and dusty, it's the French Open, and that if they're playing on grass, it's Wimbledon. Also that there is a long-standing (pun not intended, but applicable) ritual of waiting in line for same-day tickets at Wimbledon.  It's called the Queue.  Not sure of the reason for the capitalisation; they also capitalise "the Grounds".  Maybe to make it more hallowed?

Anyway, I awoke before 6 am to a string of texts from elder daughter, who had evidently braved the Queue with her flatmate (said flat is in South Wimbledon) and was now seated near the edge of Court 1, behind the umpire (referee? judge? I don't know nothin' about tennis.). I had to look up what Court 1 was, and worked out which game she was watching.  (Maria vs Ostapenko - never heard of either). 

Tatjana Maria - perhaps you've heard of her

I mentioned this to the Resident Fan Boy, who leapt out of bed and ran his bath.  As I dressed, I tuned in the game -- and totally failed to understand what was going on, except that the crowd seemed riveted.  When it was evident that someone had won -- Tatjana Maria -- I sat down and suddenly glimpsed my daughter for an entranced instant.  Texted "Saw you!", and the RFB's identical text appeared a split second after mine, as he watched in the living room.  

I'm in the coffee shop now, and the RFB just saw elder daughter again.  In slow motion.

Ain't technology something?

Still clueless about tennis, but it's all about love, for me. (Pun intended.)

A matter of gravity

There's an odd role-poly young woman who's been showing up at the coffee-house periodically.

She drags her wheelie-bag everywhere, as she fetches things:  her coffee, her breakfast, her napkins.  Back and forth, the wheels rumbling behind her.

Today, she approaches me to ask if I'll make sure that "nobody touches" her things while she's in the washroom, a few steps away.  I guess pulling the thing to the toilet crosses some sort of line.

"If they try, I'll body-tackle them," I assure her gravely.

She accepts this with equal gravity. 

Degrees of hesitation

So I'm sitting at the secretary desk in the bedroom, when I hear the familiar popping and cracking that means either New Year's Eve or Canada Day. 

It's Canada Day this time, and I leap up and leave the apartment, taking the stairs three flights up to the roof. Three neighbours are already there, one tucked up in a blanket on a collapsible chair. 

Which promptly collapses. 

She's not hurt.

Over the western horizon hangs a pale gold crescent moon.  Below are a line of ancient trees, which effectively block our view of the fireworks.

Damn inconvenient trees.  Providing us with oxygen, but depriving us of the show.

Some fireworks are high enough for us to see the curved brilliant edges, and we can make out the outlines of the enormous domes of red and white exploding light through the branches.

The neighbours chat and comment, as I think about these past three pandemic Canada Days:  the muted non-holiday of the early pandemic as we realised this was for the long haul; the muted non-holiday of last year, when the discovery of hundreds of graves in the schoolyards of the old residential schools had everyone abandoning the traditional wearing of red-and-white for the orange teeshirts of indigenous solidarity.

This year, there seems to be a degree of hesitation about how to dress for our national holiday.  The staff in the local coffee-shop, along with most other restaurants, have opted for the orange, while groups of families with small children have hauled out the Canadian flag teeshirts and wave miniature flags, as they make their way home from the festival at Ship's Point, hosted this year by the Lekwungen Peoples:  Songhees and Esquimalt First Nations.

We've quietly hung out our flag again this year, worrying, just a little bit, if this will be seen as supporting the truckers, and their organisers, who seem to have co-opted the maple leaf for their own furious and defiant ends.

To the west, a final powerful fire-flower.  The Resident Fan Boy appears, two seconds too late, having just figured out where I was.

I invite him to enjoy the crescent moon.  It's really damn lovely.