Sideswiped (write of passage number fifty-six)

I don't enjoy riding sideways on the bus, and avoid it whenever possible.

This particular afternoon, the bus is fairly full, so I find myself fighting momentum sideways while clutching a rail with two full cloth shopping bags dangling from my wrist, and an ice cream birthday cake balanced precariously on my lap.

Across the aisle, a plumpish young woman is curled up in a corner, her bare knees pressed against a bar, chatting nonstop on her phone.  Next to her, a young man with odd colouring - pale, pink, and washed out - is gazing into space.  He's wearing earbuds.  There's something about the proximity between the two that suggests to me that they're travelling together, just not quite in the same universes.

Every now and then, he sings out a snatch or two of whatever is playing in his ears.  I don't recognise anything, of course. Knees Up Phone Lady glares at him when he does this for the fifth time.

"I'm on the phone," she hisses, and plunges back into the other conversation.

"I was answering the question," he shrugs.

Cramped and crippled, I juggle my packages, struggling to keep the cake upright, and leap gingerly down to the pavement, wondering what the question was.

Out of pocket

So I'm sitting there minding my own business, the credits rolling on a less-than-stellar movie that I felt I should watch, when my pocket goes:  WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP, and I haul my phone out of my pocket to scan the screen in disbelief.

Somehow, I've managed to pocket-dial 911, and a message advises me that it's counting down to phoning my emergency contacts -- which include elder daughter in London, where it's currently just before dawn: 5-4-3... I hit the "cancel" button in a whirl of adrenaline and bafflement.

A couple of moments later, my phone rings, and a cheerful voice asks me if I'm okay, and would I please identify myself and my location.  I'm still so flustered that it takes a second for me to recall where I am.  I explain what happened and she laughs, saying it happens all the time.

It does??  

All alone together

He's got one of those shaved-up-the-back-and-sides haircuts, with a lid of dark tousled hair tilting towards his forehead on top - the kind of haircut that will probably embarrass the hell out of him when he looks back on his selfies years from now.

He ferries things to his chosen table - laptop, expensive-looking leather backpack, iced coffee, wallet - all the time talking softly.  He's got earbuds in and continues his conversation, sometimes looking into the middle distance, sometimes rubbing the closed lid of his laptop with his fist, circling and scratching some imperfection.  He lifts the lid, closes it, lifts it again, talking all the while, turning his head to listen as if the person on the line were sitting in front of him.

When the conversation ends, he moves to the other side of the table to face out, rather as if his phantom partner has left, and the bench is now free.

Within seconds, he's speaking softly again, his hands hovering over, but never touching, the keyboard.

A bit leery of Siri

Younger daughter has been preparing for a voice competition this month, so we've been making weekly trips to practise with her accompanist, who lives in a neighbourhood that is unfamiliar to us. During the first forty-five minute practice session, I decided to make myself scarce, and wandering rather aimlessly through the strange grey streets, decided to try and find a coffee shop.

"Siri" has been popping up on my phone unsummoned ever since my iPhone updated itself a few weeks ago - shades of the robot invasion. When she does, she immediately asks: "What can I help you with?" and, because I've only had an iPhone for a few months, follows up with a brisk "Go ahead, I'm listening" while I struggle to master the right combination of taps to turn her off and find what I was actually looking for.

One time, I snapped, "I don't need you now, Siri!" and was rewarded with a tart "That seems clear!". It's probably the British accent I've given her.

This morning, I was fumbling for a map, and when Siri appeared, I decided what-the-heck: "I need to find a coffee shop close by, Siri."

"Here's what I found," she replied instantly, providing the name, a map, and the time it would take me to walk there.

It was a charming tea shop, actually, which also serves coffee, pancakes, and sandwiches, while playing jazz recordings -- in short, the ideal place to bring younger daughter.

I feel so modern. And a little afraid.

Distracted dog-sitting

There's a bench by the Rideau River, surrounded by boulders where the dogs dance by and sign their names. Over the river's edge, there are more boulders leading down to the river, a favourite spot for canine swimming. It's not strictly legal, but no one enforces the rules.

So I am not surprised to see a white terrier wading in the greeny-brown water. He or she clambers up the rocks, makes an arc around the Accent Snob (who has never shown the inclination to swim), and trots quickly, but with no sense of urgency, along the dirt-and-gravel path that follows the river west.

This is a surprise, because, aside from a woman seated on the bench and gazing into her phone, there is no one else nearby. Puzzled, I peer both east and west. In both distant directions, there are people strolling on the pathway, already accompanied by dogs.

I watch the damp white terrier grow smaller and eventually vanish around a bend.  Perhaps he's catching up with his people, I reason to myself.

The Accent Snob continues his meandering sniff under bushes, shrubs, and stones.  I've stopped yet again to watch and wait for him when the woman on the bench finally tucks her phone away, rises, and leisurely makes her way to the ledge.  Her body language changes from languid to startled as she looks around her in all directions.  Cripes, I think, it was hers.

"Are you looking for a dog?" I call.  "He trotted down the path that way."

She's saying something, but I'm about twenty yards away and can't make it out, so I have to haul on the Accent Snob's lead to get closer.

"Was it a white dog?"

I swallow an unhelpful comment, and merely affirm.  She takes off away from me, dangling a sky-blue leash.

How many unaccompanied dogs does she think come bounding through this park? For his sake, I hope she found him.

Quiet desperation

The day after we learned that younger daughter's school had winked out of existence, things got just a shade more surreal.

I was in a crosswalk, en route to meeting Demeter at the public library, when a series of frantic texts from the Resident Fan Boy started arriving.  I got to a safe place on the curb to decipher them:

Just got back from town.  Younger daughter has disappeared with the Accent Snob.  Didn't take her phone and left the door unlocked. Crap.

Panic at a three-thousand-mile distance is even more futile than hysteria at close quarters, so I aimed for a light and jocular tone:

Learning curve!  Do you want to look for her?  And take some poop bags?

Looks like I have no choice.  She often does this to let him out to pee.  Oh damn

Obviously that's what she intended this time.  So what happened?

She could be anywhere and now she'll come back to a locked door.  Oh God.

I decided a phone call was in order. The Resident Fan Boy, a Virgo who had just flown in from Victoria the night before (a twelve-hour journey due to glitches and delays), had decided that it was imperative that he get to a downtown bank to pay a bill.  He had informed younger daughter before going out.  He would have been gone about an hour.  When he returned, not only did he find both his daughter and his dog gone, he found her purse containing her house keys and phone, and also discovered the Accent Snob's harness hanging up, which meant that she had attached the lead to the collar. We do that only when letting him out for a quick spot of relief. The RFB was now pounding the pavement, but unsure of the direction to take.

Maintaining my outward calm, I reminded him that younger daughter is familiar with the house alarm, and advised him to return to the house and set it, if he couldn't lock the door.  I also told him to phone elder daughter, who had accompanied younger daughter on dog walks the previous summer and could advise him on possible routes.

Hanging up, I proceeded to the library for my rendezvous with Demeter, not daring to tell her what was going on three time zones away until I knew more.  When she set off in search of a book, I darted into the children's section, where I could watch for her return while phoning the RFB for an update.

"Nope, no sign of her."

"Could she have gone to the park?"

"For heaven's sake, she'd never go that far!"

"How long has she been gone?"

"I dunno!  Half an hour?  The thing is, she's obviously taken him out front for a pee ---- and something happened...."

Painful pause.  From my hiding place, I could see Demeter returning from the book check-out.

"I guess you'd better call 911, then.  Keep me posted."

I set off with my mother in search of a place to drink. Demeter was suddenly thirsty and undoubtedly puzzled and hurt by my short replies and lack of suggestions. I was imagining booking an early flight home, and fought to keep my mind free of other imaginings.

At a small cafe, I texted while Demeter picked up her lemonade. The Resident Fan Boy was describing younger daughter to the 911 operator, who was almost as relieved as the RFB when younger daughter walked with the Accent Snob.  

She had taken him to the park.

Persephone unleashed - again

About three days before I set off for my annual retreat/flight/refuge in Victoria, BC, I "upgraded" my cell phone.  I'm not exactly a seasoned mobile phone user, but I've had my Android for three-and-a-half years, which, I gather, is the equivalent of fifteen years in washer-and-dryer years.  Our washer and dryer recently died within days of each other, like a devoted elderly married couple.

My old phone was waiting up to three minutes to send my texts -- a problem in an actual emergency.  It was also refusing to let me access the photos I'd taken with it. Elder daughter had a technical explanation for this; she informed me the phone was "evil".  This was odd, as she had helped me acquire it.

Nevertheless, I enlisted her help once more, and on a Sunday afternoon, we arrived at the outlet.  Elder daughter immediately started speaking for me, a bit to the bewilderment of the representative, who figured out that I was an English speaker in my right mind -- possibly due to my sly and dry asides.

Fortunately, she was a clever and courteous woman, who explained everything carefully.  In turn, we attempted to sell her on JazzFest and ChamberFest, but she lives in Barrhaven.  Bit of local humour there.

I departed with an iPhone on my person, which meant I had three days to re-learn my mobile phone skills - such as they are - under elder daughter's tutelage.

She nearly gave up on me the moment we arrived home.

As I updated my contacts list, I sent texts to the immediate members of my family.

To younger daughter, who was in the house but nowhere in sight, I texted:
"I've just got a new phone!"
The reply was immediate.  I could see the little typing icon.
Cool, who is this?
Nonplussed, I responded:  "It's Mum."
Can't be.  My mother's here.

Now, to be fair to me, I've had several surreal texting encounters with younger daughter, so I typed:
"Where are you?"
In the kitchen.

With dawning horror, I called to elder daughter in the living room:  "Uh, is your sister in the kitchen?"
"Why do you want to know?" she said wearily.  A number of unfortunate events over the years have severely damaged her faith in my ability to master social media.

I ended up apologizing to the remarkably patient person whose number I'd erroneously entered into my contacts.  No worries, said he or she laconically.  I kind of guessed.

Elder daughter's first and equally laconic text to my new phone:  Hiding. For obvious reasons.

Messages from the Spectrum: lost in the cloud

There is little wonder that one of younger daughter's favourite songs is "Over the Rainbow". She lives on the spectrum after all - the autistic spectrum, that is.

Last year, not long after she turned 19 and hence became an adult in this province, we decided we needed to start taking steps to greater independence before she broke free in frustration. So we got her a cell phone.

What became immediately evident is that this young woman, who struggles a bit with processing language and is often left tongue-tied when put on the spot, is a natural texter.

The past year has given us glimpses into her world: some startling, some warped, some touching, and most, eloquent.

I've been transcribing her messages to keep them safe "in the cloud". Maybe I should reach over that rainbow now and then to share a nugget from the pot of gold.  (Her texts are in bold; my responses in regular font.)

April 21st, 2016

There was a working dog at church today during the service!  It turned out there didn't appear to be any Sunday school because one of the little boys with blond hair wasn't there!  His name is Emery, which is kinda a very unusual name for boys and some who are his age!  He's probably like five years old or something rather!  Anyway, Dad finally got to announce your birthday and my sister's 24th birthday and the queen's and William Shakespeare's!  However, I didn't quite get to announce my 20th birthday that's coming up on the 10th of May!  Then we got a lift to where we live by one of  the gentlemen who goes to the church!  I can't remember his name!  Anyway, we are at the Second Cup and we believe you and the 24 year old know what you want from there!  I'm sure I can get the chance to announce that I just turned 20 in May!

April 30th, 2016


My eyebrows are done!  They are beautiful now!  Jessica is going to be away because she's going to have her baby!  I hope it's a cute and handsome boy!  Anyway, Jessica has hired a nice lady named Linda to do my eyebrows and I hope she knows a lot about eyebrows but she'll figure it out!  I hope she's as lovely as I am!  Anyway we're at Cora's!  See ya soon! :)

You like boy babies better than girl babies?  I'll look forward to seeing your lovely brows - all ready for going out tonight!

I know! And I think a boy baby would be the best that Jessica should get pregnant with!  I hope he's born soon!  Anyway Cora's is getting noisy because of a few ladies roaring and cheering and even screaming because of a birthday party they're celebrating or something!  They were even clapping loudly!  But that's the end of that!  OTG!


I'm glad it has quieted down a bit, so you can enjoy your lunch!  It's going to be *very* loud at Jennifer's house after she has had her baby!

My brow employee's name isn't Jennifer!  It's Jessica!  That's the name I typed in!  "Jennifer" has two "n"s, two "e"s, an "f" and an "r"!

"Jessica" has two "s"s, one "e, a "c" and an "a"!

It is going to be at her house!  Much louder than today at Cora's!  Because in life, a woman has to yell and scream a lot when her baby is about to come out of her!  The doctor or nurse has to tell her to push until the baby's born! And when it is, it cries and coos a little!  I remember sounding like that when I was born!


May 1st, 2016


We are late!  It is all the bus driver's fault for not show up on time!  Now we've missed out on the opening hymn!  We also missed out on the cantor hymn!  Even the beginning of the gradual hymn!  There's also no Sunday school again!  The cute little blond haired boy is not here!  Not even any other little boy with a different hair colour!

Alas, while I was transferring these messages from the document to which I'd been saving them, that document disappeared into cyberspace.  Now I have to start saving them all over again.

The clouds, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell, are always getting in my way.

The course of a lifetime runs over and over again

The most stressful days of my life always seem to be temperate and lovely. I was out with the Accent Snob just before a sushi lunch with the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter, thinking how wonderful it was that my knees didn't hurt as they did for nearly a year, and resolving to be grateful for this, knowing it's not likely to be permanent, because time isn't kind to joints in the long run.

The RFB had a doctor's appointment (which is why he was home for lunch), and as we waited at the bus stop, I got a text from younger daughter, who was meeting me for her ritual pre-music-lesson coffee shop visit. Today's difference was that she was taking the bus by herself from her school in Bells Corner in the far west of Greater Ottawa.

This was not particularly worrying because she has come all the way home at least three times (once without our knowledge), which involves a bus change downtown. The trek to the coffee shop would be one bus dropping her off nearly at the entrance. She was texting to ask me if she should get ready to leave. She was ten minutes early, so I told her she could, or she could leave when the wristwatch alarm in her packsack went off. (She refuses to wear the watch.) Either way, it would give her plenty of time to make the five-minute walk to the bus stop by 2:50.

I chatted on the bus with the RFB before we parted ways. I strolled down to the main library to return a DVD, then headed for the coffee shop. I cheerfully told the staff what was happening; they're quite familiar with younger daughter from our weekly visits. I settled with my coffee and checked in with younger daughter.

She'd missed her bus.

Well, no matter. I looked up the GPS for the next bus and gave her updates. It was only after I'd asked her if she could see the 97 yet that she informed me she was on the 118.
The 118 does not go downtown.
She said she was scared and didn't know where to get off.

I kept calm and phoned her directly. I told her to get off at the Baseline Station. I followed up with a text telling her to cross to the other side and catch a 95 or a 94. She's done this with me before a few times.

Her next text asked: "Which is the other side?"

I called her again, but my explanations didn't make any sense to her.

"Do you want me to come get you?"
"Yes!"

I abandoned my cup and dashed to Slater Street where a 95 was drawing up. It was, naturally, a sluggish one. As I exchanged messages with an increasingly distressed younger daughter, I noticed I was now down to one third of my phone battery. I phoned elder daughter, gave her a quick rundown of the predicament.

After what seemed an eternity, I leapt out of the bus at Baseline Station, scanning the long, long platform for the familiar pink hoodie. Heart sinking, I realized why she didn't understand what "the other side" was.

She hadn't got out at Baseline Station.

I phoned her again and tried to get her to tell me the number of her stop, or to describe where she was, knowing my battery was getting lower and lower.

My bladder was also getting fuller and fuller. I'd left the coffee shop too quickly.

I dashed for Centrepointe,listening to the warning beeps of my dying battery, knowing there would be pay phones. And washrooms.

As I frog-marched into the building, some old codger intoned dryly: "Left! Right! Left! Right!"
"This is not funny," I snarled as I swept by him. "This is an emergency!"
"Oh," he said.

Without access to my phone, I had no access to phone numbers. I remembered I'd written elder daughter's onto a scrap of paper which I'd slipped into my bus pass back in the days before I had my own cell phone. However, elder daughter's cell still has a Halifax area code, so the phone was demanding $5.60 and refusing to take toonies. (That's a two-dollar coin, for you non-Canadians.) I slipped in my credit card, which has worked in past emergencies, but the phone couldn't read it. Now close to tears, it suddenly occurred to me that elder daughter was home which meant I could use our landline.

She didn't pick up, of course, not until she heard my frantic voice berating her for failing to answer during a known family emergency. She has a phobia of telephone solicitors, scared of hurting their feelings, I suppose. I told her to phone her dad and her sister, and see if she could pinpoint the latter's location - which could be anywhere along the 118's route, which stretches across the southern side of the city, pretty well the whole length of Baseline Road. I gave her the number of the pay phone.

After more than five minutes - I could see people peering cautiously at me from behind pillars - I finally phoned back. Apparently the pay phone number hadn't worked, but elder daughter had cajoled younger daughter into walking to the closest corner and reading a street sign: Centrepointe Drive. If she'd got off a 118 bus at Centrepointe Drive, she was relatively close by. I barrelled out a back exit.

The sun was just disappearing. All sorts of strange thoughts whirled through my head:

Centrepointe Drive is a crescent, isn't it? Suppose she's at the other end?

I suppose this will seem funny -- at some point.

Isn't Baseline Road closer than this?

I know you're out there somewhere.

No, I would not give you false hope, on this strange and mournful day, but the mother and child reunion is only a motion away...

The setting sun blinded me as I look frantically west. I blinked, looked east -- and there she was, talking on her phone to her sister. She was very upset about having to reschedule her lesson. I held my tongue as I led her to Baseline Station. There's no point arguing with someone living on the autistic spectrum with a newly diagnosed anxiety disorder.

Half an hour later, I left younger daughter and the Resident Fan Boy at the coffee shop. I climbed up the hill towards the Parliament Buildings, noticing for the first time that my legs felt weak. All the confident strength I'd felt five hours earlier had ebbed away. By the time I'd reached my bus stop, my left thigh ached and my knee stung. I tried stretches and found I could barely lift my foot. It was as if I'd aged a decade in an afternoon.

Oh little daughter of mine…

Going to great lengths

I was on my way from a BIFHSGO meeting (that's my family history society, for those who don't know I'm a family history nut) which had gone overtime, to drop off a DVD at the library, then high-tail it around the corner to the Empire 7 to meet the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter at Lincoln.

This is the first family rendezvous we've done with a cell phone. As I hurried along, I already knew that the RFB would be getting the popcorn because he had texted me before leaving the house. However, the RFB is flatly refusing to get a mobile device, so when I didn't show up at the appointed time, he panicked, found a pay phone between the coming attractions, and left a message along the lines of if-you-don't-answer-your-cell-phone-what's-the-point. I hadn't answered because by the time I realized the thing was vibrating in my parka pocket, his call had gone to voice mail, and I hadn't figured out how to retrieve my voice mail. (I have now.)

So I arrived five minutes into the film and, having no night vision to speak of, had to stand at the back of the cinema until the RFB came to help me feel my way to my seat, to the dismay of the lady on the aisle.

Anyway, Lincoln:

I've only seen two of the Academy Award nominated films. Les Miserables was two and a half hours I'll never get back and of course, as I'm typing this, has just won the Golden Globe. (Fine performances, lovingly filmed, but gosh darn it, it's a musical based on variations of the same song.)

Lincoln is also epic and about half an hour too long, but it's gripping, even though we know how it panned out. Everything appears to have been filmed through a blue filter, taking us back to a cold, bleak, nearly colourless Washington DC of January 1865. Top-notch performances from many of the finest character actors in the States, including a rather wonderful turn by James Spader as one of a trio of lobbyists selling off appointments to reluctant Democrats in order to secure their vote for the Thirteenth Amendment. About four speaking roles for women, even in this large cast, but it was, after all, a man's world -- and a white man at that.

I've read complaints about the film not including the assassination, although it does show Lincoln's death a few hours later. Frankly, I thought the film should have ended at the point when the President sets off down the halls of the White House, on his way to Ford's Theater. It was a beautifully shot and poignant moment; everything beyond was superfluous.

A good film, all the same. Of the other nominations, I only really want to see Beasts of the Southern Wild and Amour. That should be enough to choose something to champion come awards night. (If Les Miz wins, I'll throw snack food, I swear!)

Hold the phone (Merry Tenth Day of Christmas)

For more than a decade now, the Resident Fan Boy and I have resisted getting a cell phone. The RFB was actually offered a Blackberry for work, but refused. He doesn't like the idea of work following him home. For myself, I don't like what cell phones seem to do to people, encasing them in invisible bubbles which reduce all fellow travelers to scenery at best, and obstacles at worst.

Alas, I am now going to be one of those people. We've just been running into more and more situations where it would have been a whole lot easier if at least one of us had a cell phone. I nervously accompanied elder daughter to a purveyor of such devices and watched in some amusement as the young man serving us consulted with her on what the expiry date on my credit card was. I did point out that I actually know when my card expires and could tell him that myself, but the irony seemed lost on them. I've spent the past week getting a start on making every texting and phoning mistake in the book. A book would be helpful; instead I've downloaded a 100+-page user's manual. One of these days, I'll summon up the courage to read it. And actually make some phone calls. Elder daughter asked me today if I've figured out how to hang up yet. (No, I haven't.)

Oh, and I've been taking pictures. Not quite as nice as I can take with my Nikon, but not bad. The above was taken this afternoon at the Mayfair Theatre in the Glebe which has been showing films since 1932. It's now a cult/art-house film venue and has been lovingly restored, complete with a piano down front and faux-loges (which may not have been faux at some point). It also features a rather large concession stand which had a nice pall of smoke today and a burnt after-taste to the popcorn. Rather pleasant, really. We munched contently while watching vintage Loony Tunes. I imagined the people who watched the original brand-new cartoons in that very theatre in the late forties and early fifties of the last century, while I picked out a text message to my mother in this century. But not during the show, of course. I haven't become one of those people.

September snapshot

From my table at Planet Coffee, I can see a man in the breezeway, standing in the space between two benches on the wet bricks.

He's talking steadily, gesturing as if he were giving a presentation or sermon. He looks a bit like an actor memorizing a speech. His expression is earnest, and his focus, although inward, moves smoothly to various parts of the tiny plaza, as a speaker would, surrounded by rapt listeners. He has an earpiece in his ear and a cellphone held loosely in front of him at waist-level.

I can't hear him through the thick glass, but I find myself hoping he really is talking to somebody...

The Yo Yo Man (write of passage number twenty-four)

He must have got on at Tunney's Pasture station, because it seems as if his barking voice comes out of nowhere:  "Yo.  YO.  Don't you disrepect me. DON'T YOU DISRESPECT ME!  YO. YO! YO!  I'm not your boyfriend.  I'M NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND!  DON'T YOU DISRESPECT ME!"

And so on.  I look resolutely to the front, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see that younger daughter can't resist glancing back.  She's starting slightly at each YO!  Sound sensitivity is a common thing among those on the spectrum.  I smile at her reassuringly.
"It's okay," I say softly.
"What?" she asks, not so softly.
"YO!" says Yo-yo Man.  "I'm coming to your house.  I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE!"

We're pulling into LaBreton Station.
"I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE!" declares Yo-yo Man, moving swiftly and purposefully through the throng of bodies in the aisle. "'Scuse me!"  He has absolutely no trouble getting to the exit, and strides off.
"I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE...."

"Goodness," I say to younger daughter.  "I'm glad he's not coming to our house!"

I see heads turning to grin at me and other shoulders shaking. 

I gather there's a consensus.

Oblivious (write of passage number twenty-three)

I could hear her long before I saw her, the steady and inane chatter of someone on a phone in transit: "OH HI!....I'M ON A BUS...YEAH, WHAT'S YOU UP TO?...."

When I rose to make my way to the exit, I found my way blocked by the usual crowd of people who cling to the space near the exits. One was a stocky woman, shopping bags slung on her arms, both hands gripping the bars on either side of the door. She had her head severely tilted to one side, gripping her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder, her eyes fixed in the middle distance, talking incessantly.

As we reached our stop, I managed to trade places with one young fella, so that I was standing at yakking lady's shoulder. The door opened and someone stepped down. The woman's arm dropped but she had not moved, so I nudged into the narrow space between her and the door.

"I'M GETTING OFF AT THIS STOP, SO YOU DON'T NEED TO PUSH," declared Yakking Lady over her shoulder as she clambered out. She proceeded up the flights of stairs, keeping up the commentary into the phone, with periodic backward glares at me. When I got to the bridge over the station, I watched her toddling off down the road and into the evening, cell-phone glued to her ear, packages swaying, possibly regaling her listener about the pushy woman on the bus. (The nerve.)

Just ten looks is all it took (write of passage number eighteen)

April in Hades means a sepia world of still-dead grass and weather-beaten brick. We're out of our boots and back into street shoes at last, the beat of our footsteps knocking up the gravel and salt left over from winter into our noses and mouths.

This morning, I'm seated next to a young woman who's busy texting. Directly in front of me, another young woman of similar age keeps glancing back over her shoulder at my seating partner, smiling expectantly. Seating partner does not look up, not even a flicker of an eyelash in this other girl's direction. This goes on as the bus cruises down the long stretch of the Vanier Parkway. I'm starting to feel very sorry for the ignored girl, who persists in repeating her grinning backward glances with not a sign of encouragement from my seat-mate.

It's not until we're nearly at Hurdman Station when it finally dawns on me that the girl in front of me is texting too...

Lord of the Slithy Toves, er, The Chronicles of Wonderland, no, wait...

Given the presence of younger daughter in our home, there was no way we could avoid going to see Tim Burton's version of Alice in Wonderland. I had been noting the reviews in the newspapers and blogs; no one seemed to like it much. Still, I clung on to hope. More than one reviewer hadn't liked Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory either, and I had thought that was rather charming and far closer to the spirit of the original book than the 1971 version.

Oh dear. The film looks great, no mistake. The casting is nothing to complain about except for Alice herself; Mia Wasikowska comes across as a paler version of Gwyneth Paltrow --- with less personality. It is rather fun to see Tim Pigott-Smith and Geraldine James (Captain Merrick and Sarah Layton from Jewel in the Crown) as a married titled couple; in this movie, he's a goodie and she's a baddie.

Burton apparently decided to side-step the whole "series of odd happenings" of the books and make a movie about a nearly-grown-up Alice that might just have well been entitled: Alice: Return to Wonderland. It ends up being yet another "innocents against the forces of evil" epic which is what the Alice stories never were. The only references to Lewis Carroll's Alice are flashback scenes with a rather ill-looking six-year-old Alice who inexplicably goes to bed wearing pink lip gloss. Naturally, nineteen-year-old Alice dons armour and fights the Jabberwock herself in a stirring battle scene finale, before returning to the real world, turning down the offer of marriage from the stuck-up prig and embarking upon a life of adventure and commerce. Oh yes, and the Mad Hatter expresses his triumph and Alice her defiance with a techno-dance move....

As I cottoned on that we were in for another mélange of Lord of the Rings/Narnia/The Golden Compass, I soon drifted off. I was awoken by a mother who was one of hostesses of a birthday party of pre-teen girls in our row. She'd been on a popcorn run and needed to softly call to us twice to pass back in to her seat. The Resident Fan Boy and I thought it might not have been obvious that we were snoozing, due to the large 3D glasses, but decided later that our lolling heads and open mouths might have given us away.

Youngest daughter, however, was entranced, so I guess it was worth it.

I'll tell you what I did enjoy, though. There was a very funny column in yesterday's Ottawa Citizen about refusing to get a cell-phone. (Mobiles for you Brits.) I had a wonderful giggle; I don't think I even laughed once during Alice in Wonderland.