It's Canadian Thanksgiving today, dear reader. If you're from the United States, I must tell you this is a lovely time of year to celebrate the season of harvest. I got a little homesick on Instagram, watching my Canadian friends truss up their turkeys and bake their glorious pies. I know there's nothing stopping me from holding a celebration of my own and yet, I have let something stop me.
Perhaps I will have to fix that next year.
Winnie continues to be the most darling puppy in the world, and by puppy I mean complete rascal.
We recently took her to get spayed and in so doing discovered the secret to making time stand still, as I'm actually counting down the minutes until we can free her from that sorrowful cone.
My little brother, Jonny, spent the past week driving from Montreal to Boston with his friend Andrew, an absolute dream of a roadtrip to my way of thinking.
(p.s. In case you're wondering: do they always look this tough and shady? my response would be to wipe tears from my eyes...tears of laughter, that is).
Oh, how I love the grand tradition of the roadtrip!
How I love looking out at this shimmering world through the windows of a car, listening to good music, stopping for treats at gas stations and little corner joints, and sharing it with someone whose company I dearly enjoy.
Jonny was so kind as to send me pictures along the way, including snippets like the one above wherein he demonstrates an apparent flair for local accents, or at the very least a flair for keeping me easily amused.
Something else which amuses me--this fountain pen and ink in the shade of vert olive, received as a gift for my birthday.
Vert olive, dear reader. All I have to do is whisper those words and I experience the most delicious thrill.
Caroline continues to tat herself up at every available opportunity.
It doesn't help, I suppose, that my disapproval is almost always eclipsed by my oohs of admiration.
This morning I encountered two wild burros out in the middle of nowhere. Do you know how it feels to collide with one of these immortal bricks while running at top speed in the dead of night, dear reader?
I do, and I think for that reason they now keep to a safe distance whenever I pass by.
And finally, Higgins. Dear old Higgins, who could imagine life without him?!
He's been doing rather well lately, indulging an interest in old motor-cars and making his home on a quiet street which he assured me was worth a hundred Portabello Roads.
He said it, not I.
Why do I fret over his social standing when he seems content enough to blurt out whatever rash thought comes to mind, then fix the listener with a look which says: aren't you lucky not to be lower than me on the food chain??