I was tempted, of course. Usually I swing into Holt’s just to smell the thickly perfumed air, but not this time. I bought a little pot of lip stuff at Body Shop and went into the famous Lululemon to look longingly at their workout wear. My daughter tells me their stretchy pants make one’s butt look awesome, but my butt will have to make do with our ratty stretch pants rather than $100 worth of awesomeness. A quick look in Winner’s, another favourite store, where I could not believe the line-up of 15 or so women, standing waiting to pay, as if paying were a privilege they had to wait for.

I turned up Scollard Street, an extremely snazzy street with lots of art galleries. There was an opening at one, obviously, lots of expensive people inside in sleek, glittery black, sipping white wine. Outside, a group of what looked like homeless people, street people, dressed in jeans and plaid workshirts, sitting on the steps smoking cigarettes. Why are they allowed to stay? I wondered. Then an expensive woman in black came out, leaned over them and said, “Roger would just love to take you all for dinner,” and one of them began to translate into a strange language, all “shhhs” and “chhh’s,” for the others.

I peered in the window at the art. It was Inuit, stunning, glowing embroidered blankets, paintings, sculptures – caribou, seals, sea birds, bears, people, winter – made for the expensive people in black. The folk outside were the artists, exiled not because they were badly dressed but because they all smoke.