One of the unexpected pleasures of this nine-to-five job I have for another two weeks is the morning commute. I adore a full-to-capacity subway train in the morning. I burrow my way through the crowd and prop myself up against the glass door in between cars. NO ONE ever heads to this oasis of calm. Why? Why does everyone cluster around the doors where people enter and exit? They seem poised to stampede.
Safe and snug in my cubbyhole, I produce a paperback from my satchel (yes, I have a satchel -- what's it to ya?). For the fifteen minutes it takes me to travel to my lucrative yet deadening employment, I am happily immersed in the world of the particular author I'm reading. Lately it’s been Dickens and David Copperfield, but I’ve had to say au revoir to Peggotty in favour of a library book that’s just come in—Joe Keenan’s “My Lucky Star”. Keenan was a writer/producer on “Fraser” and this is his third novel. Show off. It’s every bit as sophisticated and witty as his television work.
As for brown bags, I must say I’m getting a little tired of taking my lunch to work. I ran out of lettuce today and added parsley to my cheese sandwich. Why I would have a bunch of parsley and not a head of lettuce in my fridge I can’t say. SEE WHAT THIS JOB IS DOING TO ME? It’s sheer madness! Some days I feel like driving my head through my corner office window, just for the physical sensation.
Marketing geniuses have suckered the unwashed into purchasing high end condos that will go up at the corner of Yonge and Bloor, in the not-so-near future. The bastards! They are going to knock down a perfectly ugly block of low rise offices and cheap ethnic eateries so some debt-ridden patsies can bed down in 300 square feet cubicles/nestings. I’ll tell ya – that’s gonna be one disappointing view from the 35th floor. Stollery’s on one corner and the Bay on another. Wowee. Oh so chic. Idiots! Meanwhile where will the stupefied go for six dollar chicken thali? Why didn’t the city consult with numb and bored neighbourhood office drones first? Developers – they don’t know nothin’ from chicken thali.
Two more weeks to go. How do people do this all the time?