![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Maybe the weather
It snowed yesterday and rained today and gusted about knocking down tree branches and I hurt hurt hurt. And had a dentist appointment for a cleaning, after which dentist asked did I want to do a filling or two as well because her next client had cancelled. Client had had a panic attack, as I overheard secretary telling assistant, and I was feeling quite odd myself for no good reason except maybe pressure changes, or strangling allergies or letdown from codeine cough syrup (codeine is an unchancy beast), so I had to decline.
But it was as ever rather pleasant to be out and interacting. My taxi driver down turned out to be an old acquaintance who twice took me home from physio, not that face-blind me recognized him in his mask, so we nattered happily about how Toronto has changed in the 30 years since he arrived here from Somalia and how our climate compares to his own, which he says is incredibly hot most of the time: 40, 45, but not as humid as here. My new dentist is peppy and chatty but of course one can't chat back with one's mouth full of instruments. And since I still ached I taxi'd back to Fiesta and bought bagels and a ciabatta lunga (Italian baguette) and ate most of them with butter, an extravagence.
Am reading a Midsomer murder novel, oh so slowly, because Graham seems to want to write Middlemarch only with homicide. Spends the first 200 pages of a 550 page book introducing a cast of unlikable characters, denizens of the village, and then offs one of the few decent people, and then introduces some more unlikable characters, and here we are halfway through and Barnaby hasn't even taken on the case yet. The only advantage I can see is that we are spared the antics of Barnaby's bumptious assistant, though it's a close call as to who's more revolting, him or the villagers. Ah well. Only another three hundred pages...
But it was as ever rather pleasant to be out and interacting. My taxi driver down turned out to be an old acquaintance who twice took me home from physio, not that face-blind me recognized him in his mask, so we nattered happily about how Toronto has changed in the 30 years since he arrived here from Somalia and how our climate compares to his own, which he says is incredibly hot most of the time: 40, 45, but not as humid as here. My new dentist is peppy and chatty but of course one can't chat back with one's mouth full of instruments. And since I still ached I taxi'd back to Fiesta and bought bagels and a ciabatta lunga (Italian baguette) and ate most of them with butter, an extravagence.
Am reading a Midsomer murder novel, oh so slowly, because Graham seems to want to write Middlemarch only with homicide. Spends the first 200 pages of a 550 page book introducing a cast of unlikable characters, denizens of the village, and then offs one of the few decent people, and then introduces some more unlikable characters, and here we are halfway through and Barnaby hasn't even taken on the case yet. The only advantage I can see is that we are spared the antics of Barnaby's bumptious assistant, though it's a close call as to who's more revolting, him or the villagers. Ah well. Only another three hundred pages...