Hellooo my dearies. How goes the quarantine? Lori has been laid off, just short of her Significant Birthday in May. She’s going to be OK: her husband works as a courier, but it’s still tough. Celeste writes to say we may be related, as she read an earlier blog I wrote called We Can Never Be Royals , and thinks we may have a common ancestor. Marcelle is a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and enjoyed the letter written during the Spanish Flu quarantine, even though it turned out to be fake. She recommends watching Midnight in Paris, and, if you like your entertainment apocalyptic, The Handmaid’s Tale and Contagion. Bert wants to know if you have to peel your eggplant for the Eggplant Parm recipe posted on Tuesday. You don’t, but you really should salt it. And here we are.

 

It’s quiet, isn’t it? Noticeably so. We live under a flight path, and have become accustomed to the distant roar of jet engines. Less traffic, fewer sirens, despite our proximity to a hospital. Even the children, home from school for a third week, are subdued. Just the birds chirping, and the odd dog barking, and the muffled coughs of passersby who anxiously look away lest they be Covid shamed. My hands are dry from washing and wiping everything down with antiseptic wipes, and my jeans a just a teensy bit snug. I tell myself it’s because they’re fresh from the dryer, but in fact it’s me who is fresh from another bowl of pasta.

 

We had a (phone) meeting this morning with the nice man who looks after our investments. He too is working from home, as opposed to his office in a big banking tower, and it was rather sweet to hear his kids occasionally calling out in the background. Bankers have unruly kids too! We have been diligently saving money since our late twenties. It was John who insisted. Left to my own devices, I would have nothing to my name but some nice shoes and some vague memories, but we’ve been careful, through thick and thin. We were lucky enough to buy our house at the right time, and so we are in fairly good shape to weather the storm. That being said, I may have to work another 30 years, or take another job, perhaps as a plus size fashion model.

 

Ronan was very disappointed to learn that U of T has cancelled spring convocation. That’s cancelled, not postponed. He was so looking forward to walking across the stage to get his diploma and shake the Dean’s hand. Between you and me, I’m OK. Aidan’s graduation from Western was one of the longest days of my life, watching 3 thousand young people gather their parchments, many of them hungover from several days of last hurrah partying. In fact, the young woman who followed Aidan projectile vomited on stage. John caught it all on camera as we were of course recording the moment. It was actually the highlight of the ceremony, although not, I’m sure, for the young lady or her parents. In any case, Ronan is planning on grad school, so he will have another kick at the mortarboard and tassel.

 

The most exciting event as we head into the weekend is the return of Ozark, dropping Friday on Netflix. There is nothing better than watching Jason Bateman launder money for a bunch of hillbilly heroin dealers. I also discovered a lovely little British series called Feel Good, starring Canadian Mae Martin as a stand-up comedian who falls in love with an English girl while trying to stay sober. Strange how I can relate to both scenarios.

 

Finally, I will leave you with this little game. Make up your soap opera name, which consists of your middle name and the street you grew up on, and then describe what kind of character you are. For example, I am Anne Crillon, a spinster librarian with a dark secret. John is Everett Sheldrake, an eccentric millionaire who knows too much. Darren is Blair Division, a man who is his own evil twin.

 

Stay well, and have an imaginative weekend.

 

 

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