The cheque was in the mail

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The cheque was in the mail

And just like that – September 1 – the weather turned. The days are glorious, but the evenings are definitely cool. Amazing that Mother Nature pays attention to our calendar like that. But sometimes she does.

If I post this, you have to promise not to pass it on to Pierre Poilievre. He rants about destroying the CBC, and I’d hate for him to know how extravagantly they pay people. I just received a cheque from them, for what I’m not sure. When I saw it was a cheque, my heart leapt; I was on a radio program not long ago, perhaps it was actually paid, not free as I’d been led to believe. But no, this massive payout must be for some past endeavour. I wrote to the kids, perhaps a winter vacation is in the cards for us now!

Or perhaps not.

The same thing that often haunts me is back – a bug nagging at my throat, my nose. I guess I’m susceptible to bronchial things. I’ve been fighting, though, with what’s left of the wonder drug I bought in France – Berocca Immunité – full of vitamins and minerals, and so far, have not succumbed, although whatever it is – a late summer cold? – is still there. I almost canceled going to Lynn’s for a final swim and dinner on Sunday, but luckily did not, because it was sublime. She’d invited two other friends whom I’d never met, and we were instant kindred spirits.

It was potluck and I was asked to bring hors d’oeuvres, so I made pesto hummus with my basil, and tzatziki with my cukes and garlic. Delicious, if I say so myself. And really easy, hardly any equipment needed.

Today, my hairdresser, Spavros, is back from more than two months in Greece. I usually get a haircut every six weeks, so was full-on fluffy/hairy/out-of-control by today, very glad to be trimmed back to something respectable. He’s a lovely guy. Today I was telling him about the Festival film, Jane Austen Ruined my Life, I’m going to on Monday with my friend Liz who’s flying in from London, because she’s in it. He asked, Who’s Jane Austen? I realized they do not deal with Jane Austen in Greek schools, so I told him, and we discussed the writers he learned about, like Plato, Socrates, Euripides, and Homer. He is reading Homer’s Iliad to his young daughter. Lovely to celebrate our different literary heritages and emerge transformed at the same time. Well, kind of transformed. Tidied up, at least. Same old face, however.