There used to be a little book shop in Toronto, near the corner of Yonge and Eglinton. This was back in the early 80’s. I lived near enough to ride my bike over on a Saturday morning. The shop was above a bakery and I may or may not be imagining that you were allowed to take your goodies upstairs and sit on one of the couches or at little tables (my imagination also recalls a fireplace) and browse the bookshelves. I’d buy the Saturday Star there and a few croissants, which I’d bring home in the basket of my bike. Home being a postage sized single room in the attic of a big old house on a tree-lined street of big old houses. It wasn’t ritzy then. Many of those houses had been divided into apartments and rooms. I lived with my best pal, a black cat named Joshua, who’d spend the day outside and when I came home from work he’d be there to greet me and we’d trot up three (four?) flights of stairs together and settle in for the night. My apartment (a room really) was teensy. Big enough only for a mattress on the floor and a dresser. No couch, no table, a beanbag instead of a chair. and a sewing machine for making most of my clothes while sitting on said beanbag. I had a small television, a shelf for plants and books. A stove, fridge and sink against one wall. It was enough. The bathroom was shared with the teensy apartment next door, where T, who worked for the CBC, lived alone surrounded by giant, unwieldy stacks of old newspapers he couldn’t bear to get rid of and (apparently) mice. (No mice problem at my place given four-legged roommate.) He made a mean kedgeree, T did, and almost always made extra for me and I swear I can still remember the smell and the promise of it as Josh and I walked up those stairs.

All this from a picture that crossed my path the other day. I don’t even know who the artist is, but thank you.

Also… feeling a strong yen for smoked fish and rice.

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