Grey and Gulls

A heavy fog is down today, hiding the mountains and the tops of nearby buildings from view. The Pacific Press building's got a cloud sat sitting right on top of it: I can hear the seagulls greeting the day, but I can't see a single one. I think summer is going out of Vancouver.

With the coming of colder weather, my routine has changed. I can't put on the heating as much this year as I did last, because of the cost of electricity, so I've had to devise other means of keeping myself warm. Stella does all right, of course, bundled up in her trashheap, and with that skanky fur coat of hers. I, on the other hand, shiver in my skin. It's difficult to get out of bed with the chill nipping at my bare feet. I want to bunch myself up and stay perfectly still to hold in the warmth. I can see the windows from the couch, and the sky outside. It's grey as far as the eye can see, freezing grey. If eyes could catch frostbite, that's how they'd get it, looking at that sky. Sometimes, in Sweden, it would get so cold the morning dew would freeze to the landscape, leaving it encrusted in ice. Every branch of every tree, every clump of dead grass, every eavestrough and every bicycle, had its own jacket of ice. Had the sun risen, it would've been blinding, the light dancing amidst all those frozen branches, but it never did. It was grey on grey--grey trees, grey sky, grey ice. Grey has become, in my mind, the colour of cold. It doesn't make getting up seem any more attractive.

Still, the day awaits, and lying around all day would get mighty tedious. So I get up and go in the kitchen, questing after food. Instead of bread or fruit, I get out some oven fries, and wait by the oven as they bake. The radiant heat thaws me out. I eat breakfast in the kitchen with the oven door open, letting the residual heat seep out. By the time I'm finished, the kitchen's really quite toasty, and the living room isn't too bad. I have a quick shower, and the heat from the water gets the remaining chill out of my bones. Thus warmed, I put on two layers of clothing, shirt over shirt, coat over trousers, and sit down to work.

When the real winter weather rolls around, of course, I'll have to put the heating on, at least for an hour or two per day. The cold wouldn't be so bad with the windows closed, but this building has dreadful ventilation. Without fresh air coming in, it becomes unbearably stuffy.

Winter is usually a restless season for me, November in particular. The smell of wet streets and decaying leaves makes me feel like I ought to be going somewhere, but there's never anywhere to go. Every so often, I raise my head from my work to peer out the window in puzzlement. Odd, that. There's enough to occupy me in the Rat's Nest, without having to venture outdoors:

GIANT RAT: A funny thing happened this morning. I'd stayed up all night working, and Stella was mooching lackadaisically round the living room, skulking seedily in corners and examining the papers on my bookcase. She seemed to be looking for a good place to have a nap. At length, I put my drawing tablet aside and leaned back in my chair, resting my eyes. Stella came scuttling over, but I ignored her. I was rubbing my eyes in a wanky sort of way, reveling in the feeling of looking away from the screen a little too much.

All of a sudden, Stella plopped into my lap. It never ceases to amaze me, how high that rat can jump, what with all the blubber she's lugging. I opened my eyes, preparing to push her off. She looked more docile than usual, though, so I let her stay. Her hips weren't all that bunchy way they go when she's getting ready to attack, and she had her head down, instead of in its usual high-alert position.

"What do you want?" I asked her, resisting the temptation to tickle her under the chin.

By way of reply, Stella curled up and went to sleep. She didn't stay that way long, only fifteen minutes or so, but it was the first time she'd ever done that. She crawled into bed with me once, but I was sleeping at the time, and therefore not a threat. I've never had her sleep on me while I was watching before. Maybe there's hope for taming her, yet.

RUBBISH DREAMS: Once, when I was very young, I cured myself of a minor fear of drowning by making the word "DROWNING" with fridge magnets, then removing one letter for every day I swam without worrying. Maybe I should put "HITLER" on my fridge, and take off a letter for every night I spend Führer-free? At any rate, this contaminant must be removed from my dream-world. He doesn't belong. Hitler being in my dreams is like the biggest dork in school trying to sit at the pretty folks' table.

HEARTBURN: Last week, I ate two tomatoes, and got such bad heartburn I thought my chest would implode. I must renounce tomatoes.

CAFFEINE: I haven't had any since the sixteenth of this month, when I snargolated a goodbye-to-all-that pot of espresso. I have noticed an appreciable reduction in heartburn problems, as long as I stay out of the tomatoes.

SLEEP: I need some. Goodnight.