Writer’s Funk

One of the best things that’s happened to me recently is to have been ill for two weeks. If you think that sounds odd, bear with me for a moment. I thought I had bronchitis – evidently my internet-researched self-diagnosis was a little off the mark, but I swear I was sick as a parrot nonetheless, miserable enough to impersonate Donald Trump, and not at all unlike that Norwegian Blue of whom Monty Python spake: ‘THIS IS A DEAD PARROT!’ the purchaser declaimed. ‘Lovely plumage,’ demurred the seller. Well, nailed to his perch the Pythonesque parrot might have been, but my watchword (while sick, and while in recovery too) was to avoid the office chair and the computer, and languish by the window instead, overlooking the front porch, taking in the light, such as it was, and the news, such as it was, and the TV, magazines, everything except serious reading, all the while exerting my poor vanishing little self

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Okay, so what’s all that white stuff?

So … winter hasn’t really put in an appearance this year, right? Not like the last two years, when it hung around forever, nasty and vengeful, like Donald Trump gatecrashing your barbecue. Yuck. But this winter has been – well, not like winter at all. A few days when the temperature was in the minus twenties, sure, but not many, and if I’ve been out to shovel snow twice it’s been a lot. Except for last night: last night we had a good, oh, 15-20 cm, I’d say, just enough to show we’re still Canadians down here in the soft south. Here’s proof – not works of art, merely documents of record.