December: Like most of them -- all of them -- she is a stranger to me. A pale cream sweater, thickly knitted, peeked from under a close-fitting coat of orange and brown tweed. Corduroy trousers; mossy grey sneakers of that ubiquitous brand no-name. A silver ring on a finger of either hand; . . . (More)

Heading south on Broadview, I have seated myself in the rear of the streetcar, curling my numb toes inside my shoes and flexing my gloved fingers; I had waited at the stop for twenty-five minutes, during which the temperature had dropped from 1C to -1C. I glance about. To my right is a middl . . . (More)

Queen and Leslie stop. The driver: Attractive, fit, probably in his early forties. An accent I can't quite place. Neat, pale blue shirt under a navy sweater vest -- unadorned but for the burgundy crest of the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) emblazoned on his left breast. Grey trousers, with . . . (More)

She wore a faded denim jacket, stonewashed, over a white shirt with a classic collar. On anyone less youthful and sure, it would've been unfashionably plain. For warmth -- it was a chilly evening -- she tied a scarf around her neck, dark blue and mahogany silk, shot through with silver stran . . . (More)

There seemed, I observed today, to be nothing more female than bra-shopping with your friends. Of course, there was also nothing more boring, especially if they kept shooting down your suggestions for blue lace and electric pink ribbon, and stuck instead to white cotton. Bah. Joined up later . . . (More)

I have a 7-kilometre, or half an hour, commute every weekday to work, from the Leslie stop to the Queen subway station. Sometimes the entertainment is there -- like the man reprimanding his friend about his ignorance of corn foods ("You've NEVER had a corndog? Corn beef? What about cornbread? . . . (More)