Mrs Thomson and I spent a lot of time over the weekend recovering from a painful Friday in the bowels of the demented bureaucracy. It was a rare moment of convergence, since we work in very different corners of the dungeon of stupid, but both of us had to deal with unpleasant senior-level bozo eruptions. To try and bleed off the poisons of bad stress, we went for lengthy walks in the cold autumn air on both days.
Saturday saw us strolling through our extended neighbourhood, taking delight in looking at houses and properties, wondering about the people who lived there and in some cases, what they did for a living in order to be able to afford a small castle (and more to the point, why someone would burden themselves with the extensive property taxes and maintenance cost – priorities in life, I suppose). And yes, we saw our first snow flurries along the way.
On Sunday, we took a longer walk through wooded trails, along with a large number of people who also wanted to enjoy one of the last few weekends before winter sets in. It wasn’t the kind of crowd we saw the previous weekend, but then it was a lot colder yesterday, with snow flurries that almost looked like miniature blizzards. Nature was still wonderfully ablaze with colours and we tried to capture some of it, though it’s hard to do justice to riot of reds, oranges and yellows.
The small bird in the next picture, a chickadee, did its best to avoid posing as it flitted around along with several of its friends, preparing for winter. This bird species is non-migratory and well adapted to the deep cold. We see them along the same trails when we’re out cross-country skiing.
I’d like to say that the hours spent in the chill air helped with our dispositions, if only for a moment, but sadly, no. While I did manage to work through a couple of chapters of Cold Comfort, I didn’t get nearly as far as I hoped and am still partway through the second page (of eight) of my editor’s comments, proving that stress is anathema to literary creativity.