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Saturday, 26 September, 2026

In this blog post, I’m reflecting on my past a bit. You’ve been warned.

Bluehost is reminding me that it’s been another year, and they want more money. I’m not a fan of monetising what amounts to a private journal sometimes, but I’m starting to see the beauty in it. I write a lot and could find a topic, but not sure I have the energy for it, to be honest. Seems to be a full-time job. I actually have two cousins (well, daughters of a cousin, which is what again…?) who run successful social media accounts. At a funeral reception before I left London, I almost turned fangirly when re-meeting them. Many years ago, forget how long but I should definitely dig it up, I wrote an article about blogging. At that time it was a completely unknown term. An online friend of a friend whom I interviewed told me about a concept now known as independent journalism. He talked about how “in the future” people on the street would be the ones to deliver news, as it happened, before the papers printed and spun it. I thought it a curious idea at the time, but I also thought how very obvious it seemed. Twitter was just a budding site then. I hung on silly things like Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore giving blow-by-blow accounts of their seemingly ordinary home life, Tweeting back and forth like a competition, and I didn’t have to dig for them since there were so few accounts to follow.  A few people, including me, would tweet to Kirstie Alley, and suddenly we became her little cabal when she developed Phitter, something a Google search won’t even show me anymore. When she turned a bit weird and then when she died, it felt like a personal loss. Social media has evolved, but not necessarily in the best way.

Back patio was all packed up for the holidays. Peaceful. They’re back now, and I actually missed looking out at the lights and the smell of woodsmoke
Recently I posted to Instagram images of art affixed to utility poles in the neighbourhood. Somehow I missed the “best one” right outside the house. Cake, yes! (I’m off cake so this will have to do

The garden next door is at its peak, and I’m waiting for the harvest, although I’m not invited. It will be a long winter. The other day, quite by chance, I looked outside to see that the Old Man was visiting “my” garden. I wonder what he was thinking.

A deep discussion in the garden. Harvest plans?

I’ve had a flurry of dining out opportunities. Some fancier than others. Here’s some news, though. I’m invited to dine downstairs as a reward for “taking care of things” while the restaurant was closed. Stay tuned. Could be interesting.

I had brunch with my niece and her close friend. I’m not a fan of a typical breakfast, so I chose the giant (yep) croissant with smoked salmon, burrata and arugula (rocket)
A calorie and carb blow-out at Swatow, a restaurant I’ve been going to for decades. Satay beef with gai lan on fried (crispy at the edges) noodles, and I snuck a few pieces of the delicious lemon chicken

I have yet to do my brief street art tour at the western end of Little Portugal,  but I have been capturing a few familiar sights around town. Must slot in that LP visit soon.

This is the side of Sanko, a Japanese food shop on West Queen West. This is their new painting, and I finally had an opportunity to photograph it. I’m usually speeding by in transport
While not actually art, such nonsense catches my eye

Above, two Toronto classics

Meeting with my niece’s friend, Mandy, brought back some great memories of living in San Francisco – a really precious time in my life. Love that city. My niece, Mandy, and I had gone away for a few days there together way back when. We had the best time. I immediately dug out my photos Shortly afterwards, my brother brought up San Francisco again and it felt like one of those happy coincidences.

Filbert Steps, San Francisco
Mandy at the top of the Filbert Steps, Russian Hill (my favourite area) back in 2005

I had a great boyfriend in San Francisco (a story for another time maybe), and we’re still in touch – um…57 years later. I owed him an email:
(edited)Today my brother was talking about visiting me in San Francisco in the Union Street hotel place. It brought back all kinds of memories; I remember so much and yet not enough. He mentioned getting a salad in a place called Minimum Daily Requirement. Do you remember the name of that restaurant that everyone in that place ate at? Was it there?  It was always lentil soup and bread and butter as far as I remember. I did look it up to see if I could find it online, even as a historical place, but nothing came up. That made me think about cruising through the supermarket and eating food before I got to the cash register. I think you weren’t keen on me doing that, but I was hungry and broke. I don’t remember how long I had to wait for my first wages and finally being able to eat properly. Here’s another thing that happened – one of the guys I stayed with before I eventually got a shared room in that place worked in a shop on Fisherman’s Wharf. I love going down there, but one of the things that happened was that I picked up a lot of crazy junk really to decorate my places with, and he never charged me anything but told me to just walk out. Thinking back, that was all wrong, but at the time it seemed sort of normal. What days they were. Also remembering how we all lived like we were in a hippie commune with everyone sharing what we had and spending time in each other’s rooms. The hippie times were dwindling, but I remember that outside on the streets I often saw Barefoot hippies with crazy clothes, and their barefoot children traipsing through North Beach or sitting in Washington Square Park. I wish I had taken photos in those days. The fact I didn’t is just crazy to me. 
To my brother I wrote (edited): It was a “hotel” room, more like a doss house. I can still smell it sometimes. There was one toilet, one kitchen, and one shower room on each floor. That’s where I met Txxx, newly arrived from Tokyo – he lived one floor down. If that’s the name of the restaurant, I don’t remember, but we were there a lot because it sold lentil soup with bread very cheaply and I didn’t have any wages at first. Everyone knew each other in there – Lots of hippies. We shared everything. The hippy movement was in its last days, but I remember a lot.

The memories tumble in if I let them. I can say that my life has been a reflection of the incredible times I’ve lived through, post-war existence among ruins in East London, hitting just the right age at the beginning of the Mods and Rockers, Swinging 60s London where I was the most innocent of groupies, and Liverpool when it was the ‘centre of the universe’ as my friend’s husband reminded me the last time I saw him there, arriving in the emergent city of Toronto (and hating it for sooo long before I made friends and got my musician boyfriend, who I realised later was a selfish ass), living in Orange County, North Hollywood and San Francisco when we were all flower children, Living in a Toronto commune when I went back …I’ll leave it there before I’m lost in the past.

I’ve done a few walks recently and will share the photos soon. I’m delighted to get out, no matter how briefly. This makes me think about how much walking I’d be able to do in San Francisco now. Those hills would certainly be more than a challenge. I’m just so happy I got to experience them back when my legs felt the pain, but every step was worth it.

 

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Flips and Flops

Saturday, 5th September, 2026

What does it say about me that I started typing the year with 19..? Ouch.

I’ve had a gooey, beyond-itchy eye, so I decided to call the on-call eye resident at Western Hospital (listed in my post-surgery notes). He suggested I go to the clinic at 6. I got there to find two people ahead of me. The resident checked me out and, after pushing on my eyelid for a while, told me I had either a blocked duct or a mild infection. He’d be calling my surgeon and asking them to get me in for advice. Meanwhile, I should try warm compresses and some massage. If I didn’t hear from the surgeon’s office by Tuesday, give them a call. I had a nice long walk after that, pleased with how well I seemed to be walking. When I was three bus stops away, I heard music. The Portuguese church had a concert to honour a religious festival going on, so with a long wait for the next streetcar, I settled in to watch the show. I must check out when the next festival is. The whole thing reminded me of being in Torino, where the concertgoers love to join in with the local dances.

On Wednesday I thought about going for a walk, but the skies had looked dark. I decided to wait a little while. I called the eye surgeon and left a message to call me back to come in. Then an alert came over the phone.

It was horrific. The skies were dark and heavy, bearing down. The rain began. Hail followed. The trees were whipping around. From the bathroom window, the scene was apocalyptic. I half expected to see Dorothy’s house fly by, but instead the tarpaulin from the patio downstairs was in danger of sailing off. Not so bad. While it passed eventually and the sky got brighter, the rain continued. It was an ‘interesting’ experience.

The next day I had a great plan. I would go down to the supermarket and then to the fabric recycle shop. I had been putting this off for weeks. This was the start of One of Those Days. The supermarket visit went well, though.

Corn season. Great prices right now
Obey Giant – Shepard Fairey. I love his work everywhere I’ve seen it.

I got a bag of groceries and set off on my way to the recycle place, ready to take photos this time and leave with yarn, more lace and fabric. My last visit had not been long enough. I arrived to find it closed. Oh no! Understandable, though. I don’t know when I’ll get back. I’m busy for the next couple of Thursdays. Crossing my fingers for them.

Flooded! She came out and told me she was sorry. I wanted to tell her how much it had taken to get there, but this wasn’t her fault

Mind you, West Queen West always cheers me up with its colourful signs and shop windows. Grateful for that because it meant I wasn’t entirely let down by getting out there.

A mysterious painted structure on West Queen West
Nail bar and what looks like another just further along Queen Street
Those two damned things
A glorious name for a sweet shop
The best name for this book shop
I got London vibes from this florist
This alley is full of painted garages, but I didn’t have time to stop. The mural has been here for a long time, the tagging is new

Then the flips and flops started. I’ll understand if you flip past it.

The eye surgeon’s office finally called me. I explained the situation, and they asked me to come in a couple of weeks. I protested. I was then offered something sooner that clashed with something else. Would I see another doctor, they asked? Yes! Can you come in at 3, they asked? It was 2pm and I wasn’t so far away. Yes! I arrived and waited. They promised an hour and a half – it was two. Eventually I went in for an initial eye test. I couldn’t read much on the eye chart with my right eye. She was surprised. Didn’t you just have surgery, she asked. Yes, I said, but it was for near vision. You should be able to read the chart, she insisted. Yes, I said, I’ve told the surgeon. Blame me! She then began dilating both my eyes. Why are they being dilated, I asked. I have one possibly infected eyelid. Oh, she answered, the doctor won’t need them fully dilated then. But I waited. After a while went in for  the bright light one and follow-my-finger exam – there was a short look at my eyelid. Then they repeated the diagnosis from the emergency doctor. Either a blocked duct or a mild infection,  we’ll give you some ointment. I was hopeful to be handed some, but they handed me a prescription. After booking for a follow-up in two weeks, I went down to the pharmacy. I waited again. After about ten minutes, they came out to tell me, this isn’t covered. Of course, I said. Do you still want it? Of course, I said. It’ll be $40, they said. Of course, I said. And I waited for it. Out at the streetcar stop, the wait was going to be long. While in the drugstore, I’d seen three streetcars go by. I resigned myself to the wait when I discovered I didn’t have my sunglasses. Back to the drugstore I went, hoping that I wouldn’t miss this streetcar too. Not there. Back to the stop, where I found my glasses. On top of my head. Of course! At the transfer bus stop I had several minutes to wait, but when the bus arrived, it stopped several metres from the stop and everyone surged ahead. I went as quickly as I could to the door, where the door was closed in my face. Too full. Two more buses came by, empty but not stopping. The third let us all on. I was too tired to care. I’ll leave it there.

The next day while walking, I didn’t see too much damagein the neighbourhood. I found a few downed branches, but that was about it. In the neighbourhood to the south, a wonderful willow tree went down. I’d photographed it two years earlier but hadn’t had a chance to go back. I’m glad I have a photo, but it’s gone. It did help to read that willow trees are actually short-lived, fifty to seventy years. This one had been planted in the 70s.

Only a little local damage
The Givins Willow, glorious in this old photo, is gone. I’m glad I got to photograph it

There are things to smile at.

What the poop is going on?

That’s it really. Everything is another chapter of flips and flops. Some are more interesting than others.