And then the lights went out-- just as they did in May's winds and April's sleet (though not down here) and and and. Time to buy a cheap generator, because this is getting tiresome.
Everything blew away quickly and the sun came out and I limped up the street intent on food from Starbuck's because I wasn't opening my fridge thank you. Last blackout was 14 hours long. The streets were bumper to bumper in all directions because a) all traffic lights were out and Torontonians still haven't learned the drill on that one and b) the block above mine had been closed to traffic both ends by public-minded denizens because right up near Dupont a great big tree had fallen over and brought down the power lines. Tree was in full leaf, blooming healthily, and the inside was eaten out with rot.
Same was true all across TO, and down Clinton families were collecting smaller branches that had come down, breaking them up and bundling them. How lucky tomorrow is garden waste pickup and what a pity I didn't rake up the linden's seedlings before they became a sodden mess.
Starbuck's was closed (oddly, because the restaurant along from it was open.) Loblaws across from it was in business, and I ate an indifferent sandwich and watched the Hydro trucks come to inspect the wires on my street, put up yellow tape and leave again. Since it stays light late, I read on my front porch in the freshening... uhh 'very strong winds' and figured that I'd sleep comfortably enough tonight, what with the coolness and uhh 'very strong winds' that had knocked my front window curtain down.
And then the lights came back on after a mere four hours, and all was good again. Well done, that Hydro One. But I'm still getting a generator.
A slew of Christies:
The Tuesday Club Murders, in which Miss Marple demonstrates her super powers of deduction
The Moving Finger Writes, of which I retained vague memories from many decades ago. One of Christie's stronger efforts
The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side- in this case the book did, and I had to read it in sections. Not bad, not a fave
At Bertram's Hotel, which I'd thought would be pleasantly cozy, and instead found Christie renouncing coziness as a fraud and sham oh dear
The Came to Baghdad, which I thought immensely improbable even for Christie's murder+romance genre, until the denouement, which was very nicely done. The hinge of the plot of course *was* utterly improbable.
Last of the yard sale Christie's, N or M?, all about spies in WW2. Yawn. Still, Christie, undemanding as ever.
Ah yes well.
On my tablet I have Lily King's Euphoria, anthropologists in Papua/ New Guinea and no more likable than anthropologists ever are. In paperback I have Ondaatje's The English Patient, written in present tense and apparently unaware that I'm only reading it because, like Euphoria, someone listed it as a literary thriller/ whodunnit. Emphasis on the literary, I suppose, which by me is getting in the way of the whodunnit.