Nothing to say...

...but I'll post anyway, 'cause I know if I don't soon, I'll start hearing about it.

I've been sickly of late, nothing major, just sort of congested and tired. I spent pretty much all weekend in bed, as a result, with only a brief foray on Saturday to engage our downstairs neighbour in an altercation. Faithful readers will recall the characters of Ali and Ali, shoe purveyors, from an earlier cameo. Well, Ali 1 (aka Fat Ali) continues to labour under the delusion that music played loudly and bassfully will lend an impression of attractiveness to his egregious footwear offerings — and trust me, this is not merely sour grape-juice, they are egregious: I've seen Eastern European call-girls wrinkle their noses. Anyway, feeling more than usually put-upon in my unwell state, I marched my elevated goat down to his door and requested that he adjust his levels. And to my amazement, he refused. A somewhat clumsy argument ensued, marred equally by his imperfect grasp of the English language as by my imperfect comprehension of his version thereof. Little in the way of entente was achieved, an interest in involving the slum-, I mean landlord in all future dealings being the one point on which we were in agreement. I mustered what sniffling dignity I could, and exited.

Fortunately I care little for the fallout as we are moving — hooray! We finally found a place downtown that we can afford and that would not require a complete abandonment of our standards. It's actually fairly nice, parquet flooring notwithstanding, but the best thing will be its location: five minutes walk from Thom's work, a ten-minute bike-ride from mine, and a few short blocks from St. Lawrence Market and the waterfront. And best of all, we get to see the (wide) back of our dismal landlady. I suppose I'll miss the pierogies and the paczkies, and the long summer nights smoking non-filters with Jerzy and the boys under the brass pope outside the Catholic Credit Union...good times, but it's time to move on.