Informed consent

The barista asks me if I want a pain au chocolat:  "So you don't look predictable."  (A lot of mornings, I arrive at the counter and the pastry is sitting there on a plate, because they saw me coming.)

"Well, getting consent is always a good idea," I tell her.  She's laughing so much, that she forgets to get the chocolate croissant and hand it to me, even though I've paid, and is momentarily confused to see me still standing there.

"You had my consent and everything!"  I declare in mock indignation.  

I get mock-indignant so often, that I think real indignation would go unrecognised.

Things change

It was my first attempt to run down to the shops on an errand, when I spotted the two neighbourhood boys strolling up my street, clad in almost identical black teeshirts with roomy black trousers billowing out from their long legs.

I've seen them several times over the past year; one of them lives in an apartment building around the corner, and I've seen his pal at the ancient glass entry door in the morning, before they head out to middle school.  (I've also seen them hogging the courtesy seats on buses and scattering ice cream packets on the sidewalk, but, heck, thirteen is thirteen.)

That's the thing.  They don't look thirteen this late summer afternoon.  They've shot up a couple of inches, and their shoulders have broadened.  High school for them, this year, I think.

Then I discovered I'd left my wallet behind, doubled back, and decided to seek a cooler way into the village.  The sun was just bordering on uncomfortably warm, but the shadows were deliciously pleasant, with a light breeze wafting up from the strait.

So I nipped around another corner, and skidded to a halt.

For years, the City of Victoria has covered the utility boxes with historical photos of the surrounding area: landmarks -- such as hospitals and schools -- shown as they were decades before, and houses that are no longer there.

This is startling different, and the reason for it is what had been there before:

That's Joseph Trutch, the first Lieutenant Governor of British Columbia, and on at least one list of "The Ten Worst Canadians in History", for his reprehensible policies toward indigenous peoples.

I had an inkling that the former utility cover wouldn't last long, so snapped this photo in 2022.  

That was the spring that Trutch Street changed its name.  The original idea, I believe, was to rechristen it "Truth Street", but then it emerged that the Lekwungen word for "truth" is "Su'it".

It's pronounced something like "SAY-it".  For over a year, the voice prompt on the #7 bus dutifully announced it, until a few months ago, when the name of the bus stop was changed to "Fairfield and Chester".  To be fair, that's the closest cross street to the actual stop.

Blossoming

Oh, I love younger daughter's watercolour paintings.

I know I'm her mother.  They're just so lush, and light years ahead of anything I can manage.

Younger daughter's art lessons ended yesterday, for another summer.  She's been taking them with the same teacher for the past dozen years, with a few exceptions for logistics and pandemics. 

As she left, she embraced her teacher.  The Resident Fan Boy told me the teacher seemed a little surprised, but that younger daughter scoffed, on the way to the bus stop:  "I always give her a hug when lessons are over!"

It's a rare thing just the same.

Just like her paintings.

What kind of music is "Pumpkin Spice", for pete's sake???

I have come to the conclusion that Spotify just makes stuff up. 

During elder daughter's last Christmas visit, she introduced me to Spotify's "Day Lists" (as opposed to "playlists" - naturally, it took me some time to pick that up).

They're often pretty nifty, based on rather random themes.  Some are simply wonderful mixtures of unusual folk-tunes, or bracing Broadway musicals, or soaring choral works, or really strange and spooky selections. 

I don't mind; it's the kind of music experience I'm looking for, in other words:  new to me, but listenable.  They often send me what they call "medieval music".  It's usually early Renaissance mixed in with Celtic folk.  As I said, they just make stuff up.

I get waaaay too many "day lists" with "Laurel Canyon" as a theme word, though.  Don't mind that type of music, but I've heard most of it, so I'm battling the algorithms again, by listening to the more-off-the-wall things in self defense.

However, what am I supposed to think when I turn on the Spotify app and am informed:  You listened to modern rock and pumpkin spice on Fridays in the afternoon.  Here's some:  father's day, labour day, jangle, heartland rock, and college.  

This was in July, by the way.  

Is it AI - or is it because Spotify is Swedish? (I think it's because they're Swedish.  I had one or two Swedes as students in my teaching days.  They were delightful enigmas.)

And then Spotify kept offering me "goblincore".  What the hell is goblincore?  A Google search seems to lead mostly to Reddit discussions.  They're not sure, either.  The playlist, which I saved, changes from day to day, and seems to be indie folk, with the occasional bit of jazz, classical music, and even British pop from the sixties.

I mean, it's fine, but what on earth, Spotify?

I'm not sure if the following video answers the goblincore question - I gather it's a spoof on "Cottagecore", something I don't quite get either, never having had a cottage - although this song may explain how people in Ottawa obtain their cottages....