Dear all, first, I apologize. Biking home from Ben McNally Books, I came upon a man lying in the bike lane on Shuter Street, his shoes scattered on the road and his needles and drug paraphernalia beside him. Three bike cops cycled up, polite, suggesting he rest not on the street but on the grass of the park behind us, where a local mosque had set up a table to distribute free hot food. Dirty, ragged, he scrambled to his feet and put on his shoes.
I wept. There is so much misery and need in this city, let alone in this world, especially right now. And I was drizzling on about people not finding my book. I’m sorry.
Rupert McNally told me the store has books; the website is marked On Order due to some accounting glitch, but if you order from them, they’ll send to you. And I can easily go in and dedicate it to you or a friend, if you want.
Robin my upstairs tenant just brought me a blueberry scone.
Below: Remembrance Day in Cabbagetown. And your truly in the bookstore near her good friend, Charles Dickens. Who was also a flawed person who meant well.