Let your fingers do the walking�

Determined not to sit around slothfully as I did yesterday, I donned my sunscreen, walking shoes and straw hat (and sunglasses, don�t forget the shades) and walked into town to deposit a cheque at the instant teller and pay some bills. Then, feeling that I was not quite ready to head home yet, and also in need of a toilet, I walked another five minutes to Patsy�s house where I found her in her grubbiest gardening clothes relaxing with her cats.

She invited me in, allowed me the use of her facilities, prepared a glass of cold water with a slice of lime, and we retired first to her back deck which is in the process of being repainted, and then to her sun porch so she could show me photos from her recent trip to Italy. She was there in May when the flowers were not quite at their peak, but still very beautiful. I found out all sorts of interesting information, such as how her deck painter�s daughter has Crohn�s disease and might have diabetes, how the daughter of a former secretary who ran off with a former vice-principal (shocking scandal when it happened, his ex-wife still teaches for the college) developed leukemia, and all sorts of tidbits like that. I don�t know the deck painter, who is a retired Bushop�s employee, but I do remember the secretary. She once dated our erstwhile next-door neighbour when we lived at Tom�s house, who taught in the religion department for many years.

On the walk home I passed my Greek professor who was on the other side of the street walking in the other direction. I�m very fond of this guy, but I had to smile. He was wearing shorts and a suit jacket. This is the guy who�s office the cleaning staff are not allowed into because he has more papers and books on his floor than on his shelves (which are filled to bursting). He did not see me, which is just as well. I don�t think I could have looked him in the eye.

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