Bucolic miasm

It’s not hot "for the water pump" this morning (French expression to tells that it’s cold as to freeze your balls). The cold, like a big elephant, is pushing everything in the porcelain shop. The passers-by are shivering, some are overdressed while others still have their skirts a little too short.

Despite the intensity of the rays, even though I had planned what it took, except gloves, to protect myself well, my body had trouble acclimatizing to the change in temperature. In six months, we’ll talk about it again, the same temperature will make us sweat in our big coats.

However, there was something else that did not help to enjoy the walk: a smell, an industrial miasm that was difficult to identify. I immediately thought of the scent of a pulp and paper mill. In Montreal, it can’t be that. Nevertheless, there were only a few leaves that were caught by the sun. The rest stagnated in the grey and ripped it apart.

Quick back home. The week is just beginning. I still had a lot of dreams last night about things that decent ladies don’t want to hear. Quick, another little espresso coffee before going to work.

They say you always have to hope for the wonderful every morning. There, I hope so. But already, my heart is quiet; that’s already a given.