impatient zero

As a visitor from Toronto, I feel that I have some responsibility to spread the plague within my host city. (Don’t be fooled by the fact that active cases are constant-or-dropping, and that there hasn’t been a new case of SARS outside the known-to-be-vulnerable healthcare community in a dog’s age; Toronto is still seething mass of danger and viral terror. You should probably visit someplace tropical instead, where you don’t get those nasty WHO travel advisories).

In service of that goal, I’ve been talking with a sputter and forcing myself to cough whenever I’m in public. So far, I seem to not have caused Ottawa to fall under the umbrella of our plague, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. I’ll almost feel bad about it when it happens, because my hosts have been very kind to me, what with their provision of futon and Pho and Mexican goodness, but this us-vs.-them thing has to stop. And if people are already terrified to go to hospitals in Ottawa, where they haven’t had suspected case number one, I feel they should have their fears justified. I’m just doing my bit, as I see it.

Tomorrow is the first anniversary of this little diary endeavour, and I have nothing especially special to present in observance thereof.

We went shopping today, Sara and Tyla and I did, and I purchased some clothing. I now own a mildly-fitted white T-shirt, and I don’t know why I never did before. Vastly more comfortable to wear under things than the non-fitted variety I already had, as I’m sure you all knew. Sara says that I need to work out more before I can wear just the T-shirt — she and Tyla tried to back pedal in a variety of ways, but I know what I heard! — but I’m sure she meant it in the nicest, kindest, boy-my-brother-in-law-is-a-slob way possible. Tyla also made me buy a bunch of socks that are identical, because she finds the close-but-no-cigar nature of my present dress sock collection to be frustrating. Also: why was I not informed about this “machine-washable silk” innovation? Reasonably-priced machine-washable silk at that.

At Marroush, home of shawarma that is very much worth almost missing your train for, I ran into Pete Matthews. This was inevitable, because there are only 300 people in Ottawa, and I know half of them. The extras employed by the city to keep the place all bustle-y do a great job, don’t get me wrong, but you’d do well to not be fooled by them.

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