I do not want you to hate me. Yes, I am in Florida, and yes, I am sitting outside in shorts and t-shirt at an internet cafe; the sun is shining and I can hear the water of the Gulf of Mexico swooshing in a few hundred yards from here. It’s 10.30 a.m., and I’ve already had a strenuous day, starting with my usual ten-minute jogette on the beach opposite my mother’s condo, stopping periodically to look at sea birds and pick up shells. Then I rinsed myself off in the pool, which overlooks a bay on which sailboats sail and pelicans glide and which is overhung by palm trees.
Summer continues, bewildered but happy Torontonians out in tank tops, shorts, flipflops. On October 1 Lynn and I swam in