3. Out for a walk in the neighbourhood a few weeks ago, I glimpsed this building down a block or so, and was somehow drawn towards it. That sign says it's the home of the Vancouver Welsh Society, and standing in front of it, I could sense my inner 11-year-old stirring, trying to remember the words she'd recited from the stage inside, for the annual Welsh Eisteddfod Festival. We'd had a Welsh elocution teacher at my school for a couple of years, until she and her husband and two young daughter moved away. I competed in a monologue class or two (something from Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest) and given a speech, in another class, on racism in Canada.
I'm sure any passers-by must have wondered what that grey-haired woman was muttering to herself in front of this handsome brick edifice. . . . And why was she smiling. . . .
But this lovely is very, very tempting. A friend of my daughter's, a lovely young woman who's not only fallen down the rabbit hole but may have built her own little warren, brought a big box of her pens and inks over for me to test out. What an afternoon that was -- Rosé wine, and the delectable French pastries she brought, and a big box of wonderful writing accoutrements. Preschoolers couldn't have opened new boxes of Playmobil with any more glee than that with which I greeted the stationery goodies (oh, and she brought some fabulous samples of paper as well -- yummy!
Now I have to run. I'm doing some before-school baby-sitting just down the road, and I'm needed there by 6:45. Not even time to edit properly. . . . Comments, etc. ... . .