Teatime

How strange, this turn of the year. The year we have become so familiar with, the one we are living in, becomes just an old calendar, last year and the future becomes the now. How very strange.

Jetlag in this direction seems gentler somehow, less ragged. It pulls gently at us but lets us continue with our lives.

After only two weeks' absence, being back at work seems odd. Disjointed. The long, slow wait between heartbeats, the long, dark teatime of the soul.

On my desk, various sweet things that people had given me. This seems to be something that Canadians, or Canadians in this part of the country do, they make cakes, or cookies, or sweets and give them out at Christmas.

My nephew has arrived, safe and sound. He is exploring our little corner of BC. He goes to Whistler on Saturday but in the meantime, he does nephewy things, came to the nature park and met my colleagues and snakes. Allowed me to show him the trails, went into Richmond centre with Laurence and finally, tested every sofa in Ikea with me.
Meanwhile, off the pistes at Whistler, off the beaten track, one skier has died and a snowboarder had to be airlifted out and will be prosecuted for entering private property.