Off the Cliff

Last winter I could count on the fingers of one and a half hands the days when I had to use my Metropass. This winter I can count on the fingers of one hand the days I've been able to bike- not to work, just around the neighbourhood. Yesterday was one, and I got a bag of road salt for the Indian Gardener's house that has had a glacier in front of it all week. The salt made no difference at all. I think he had a water leak or something that flooded his walkway, and when temps approach above-freezing the walkway ice melts, adds its volume to the sidewalk ice, and then freezes again to glassy ankle-breaking smoothness. Wish the current absentee owner would pay one of his occasional visits, because we're due for two days of above freezing which will turn the thing into an ice dam when the cold comes back.

I'm sad that boots no longer cure my back woes, especially now that knees have returned to a year ago's unhappiness. But why were my knees so happy two years ago? The other recurrence I could do without are the heel cracks and thumb cracks. They both appear from nowhere, both go deep, and both hurt like the dickens. Truly, I'd be just as happy to spend the next month curled up on my sofa, reading and doing crosswords: but that apparently is not an option.

Must also note that someone should tell Steven Brust the difference between crumbled and crumpled. His characters are always lying in pieces on the floor after Vlad's attacks, which is a very unpleasant image indeed.