Toronto Blackout, The Sequel
Once again, I was trying to navigate my way through an Excel spreadsheet when "CLICK" everything went dark. Once again, I broke the no-cussing-in-the-workplace rule, because of course I hadn't used the magic "control s" function in twenty minutes. To make a long story short, it wasn't as bad as the blackout in August. We knew this by peering out the boardroom window to see the streetcars streaming by. "At least we can get home," says the brooding bedroom-eyed policy analyst. "What about my yoga class?" moans the willowy sociologist. "Nobody's going anywhere," Crabby says, moving into Manager Mode. "Let's give it an hour."

In that hour, I got to know some of our newer staff members a little better. A book club was formed by our librarian - we'll focus on Canadian fiction to start, at least. I caught up on my filing. Somehow, I agreed to a Boggle tournament to be set at a later date.

When one of my favourite colleagues, my fellow Montrealer, asked for the flashlight to take to the loo, I said "Make sure to wipe it off, eh?" And we all shared a big guffaw.

When the office started getting a little cold, we tromped down nine flights of stairs, caravan-style, with the flashlight-holder in the middle. I stopped off at the grocery store for a beautifully-marbled hunk of roast beast to make for dinner, and bought a $15 Liz Clairborne suit at the neighbouring consignment store (the power is thankfully working in my neighbourhood).

Now, I'm about to curl up with a gin and tonic and my suggestion for our book club's inaugural endeavor. "Rough life," Mr. Crabby snarked at me over the phone. Yeah, (yawn and stretch), it's rough. The sidewalk is shoveled, the laundry is drying, and the house smells of heavenly pot roast. Sweet dreams!