The fight with Rogers continues, but it turns out, it’s a neighbourhood issue. Their technicians are on Spruce Street right now “looking for a loose connection.” Phooey. I expressed my displeasure at all I’ve been through over the past weeks, and they took $80 off my bill. Not enough, but a start. 

On Sunday Anna and family came over. I hid ten small chocolate eggs in the garden just before they arrived, and by the time we got out to hunt, the squirrels had made off with half of them. All we found were scraps of shiny paper. I’m not sure chocolate is good for squirrels, but I guess they’ll find out. Otherwise, a most successful Easter visit, and even better – so far, all of us are still alive. 

Speaking of being alive, people keep telling me appendix horror stories, people who died of peritonitis. I was very lucky.

Two seasons.

Last night, I watched the first part of the Ken Burn’s doc about Hemingway. Fabulously told, of course, and thrilling to watch him develop as a writer, including an extended time at the Toronto Star. He and Hadley lived near where I did in Paris; I used to pass the plaque outside their home. 

Speaking of development as a writer, I’m back at my desk dealing with stacks of paper. What I note, to my chagrin – and I’m pretty sure I’ve noted this before – is that I wrote and write a lot. What I do not do is send stuff out. Or if I do, and it’s rejected once, I don’t send it out again. There are so many essays now outdated that I read and think, that’s good! It should have found a home, you idiot. 

Here, for example, is the start of a piece I sent to the Star in December, my own take on pandemic fatigue. They didn’t reply and I did nothing further with the essay. Infuriating. Send it out again, moronface! It may not be Hemingway, but then, who is? 

What should it be?