Hello young lovers

"Oh get a room," I think crossly.

Love's Young Dream, hogging the Second Best Table at the coffeehouse -- a cute blond girl with a tousle-haired boy, clad in similar hoodies, huddled together at the same side of the large table, which they're using mainly for elbow-support and little else, as they compare cell-phone screens, leaning into each other and giggling.

"I think they're rather sweet," says The Famous Writer, who frequents the cafe at the same time I do most mornings.

Yeah, they're bloody adorable.  I recognise the hallmarks of a new semester romance.  I suspect they're postsecondary, judging by how late it's getting.  They probably have a 9:30 class.

It's not like I don't remember what it's like:  the losing track of time, the unawareness of other humans in the vicinity.  They could be doing this at a smaller table, preferably outside.
 

TFW knows I prefer the table he has, and graciously notifies me when it is free. I tell him that this table feels like a safe harbour, just like the last months of the year feel like a safe harbour to me.

TFW takes this as a cue to recite: "Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulne--"

"Oh gawd!" I cry.  "My husband intones that at me every damn October!"

TFW retreats smartly.  

"Keats was a genius," I call after him, futilely.

Afterwards, I set out on foot, having just missed the bus, which was, of course, five minutes early, as the returning bus rolls by, being, of course, five minutes late.  It's fine, I have plenty of time, and the morning is cool and pleasant.

The horse chestnut trees that line Cook Street are festooned with light green baubles.  From a distance, you'd think the leaves were sun-dappled, but it's an overcast day.  Close up, the spiky fruit looks mace-like and menacing.  Within a week or two, they will begin to plummet: hard knocks to the head; the glossy brown chestnuts encased within the prickly projectiles will be like marbles underfoot, rolling, slippery..  

Rather like falling in love.

Quite early one morning

From our apartment, we can see the middle school which our daughters would have attended had we stayed in Victoria, rather then heading to Hades.

It's been upgraded in the intervening years and is now a rather handsome off-white building with Mondrian-like squares amid stencils of trees and sea landscapes.

I've learned to close the door of the en suite bathroom before using it.  All manner of people bring all sorts of dogs to the schoolyard outside of hours - something unheard of in Rockcliffe Park, where dogs were banned from school property.

At recess, the yard fills with kids ranging in ages eleven to fourteen.  Small knots of them make their way to the fence where the grass slopes down rather suddenly to two or three ancient trees.  This puts them out of sight of the school, but I'm not sure it occurs to them that they're in full view: of the quiet street, where people park their cars to walk to the shops on the busier thoroughfares, and me, sitting on the bed, while I put on my make-up.

This morning, I open the curtains to see the distant figures loping up to the school entrance, some clutching instrument cases, all wearing packsacks and clad in variations of jeans.

The young couple are obscured from their classmates and teachers by the slope of the grounds and by the tall tree by the chainlink fence, but I can see them clearly.  I doubt they'd care.  She's blond and bespectacled; he's her height, dark-haired in baggy jacket and light trousers.

How old are they?  Certainly no older than fourteen, possibly as young as twelve. Feeling self-conscious, I step away from the window, but they're oblivious to everything but each other.

I sit down on the other side of the bed, back to the window, to put on my shoes, wondering if they'll have any memory of this morning years from now: the chill of February, the half-light, the swish of the morning buses and cars.  The smell and taste of each other.

Shoes on, I stand, turn, and they've vanished; I can't even see anyone crossing the long field back to the school, where final stragglers are melting into the doors, some running, some plodding.  It's past 8:30.

Another argument for locking up your daughters

I stumbled upon a collection of videos this weekend. (Yes, as usual, I was looking for something else.) This is from a group of suspiciously good-looking young musicians who call themselves Collective Cadenza (or maybe it's collectivecadenza -- at any rate, they're cdza for short). Some of the videos are more successful than others, but I was drawn to this one about the "history of wooing women". Apparently, things took an ugly turn sometime in the early nineties.

There's some judicious bleeping here, but I wouldn't play this within the hearing of those with more delicate sensibilities such as say, young children, your grandmother, your boss, etc:

Oh well, I guess one can argue that at least today's young women should have no doubts about where they stand (and why they shouldn't turn their backs for a second), but all the same, it's a tad depressing, isn't it?