March 17, 2003 — 4 PM

Someday We’ll Stop Talking About the Weather

Pretty, n’est-ce pas? It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, and yes, somewhere in the family tree, I’m Irish. I’m looking for some greenery — any green at all — but I see only grey, brown, muddy puddles of car-exhausted slush. “But Montreal is a beautiful city,” I insist to myself. Er, um, well. This weekend’s thaw, while pleasant, has stripped the city of its winter white sheen. The trees are naked; the gritty remainder of daily salt scars the sidewalks. Even the so-called evergreens, and there aren’t many in Southern Quebec, seem to be the shade of old tobacco.

And as if the normally picturesque nature of my neighbourhood weren’t already battered enough, a plastic bag has settled rudely and stubbornly into the tree in front of my flat. I swear it’s attached with an actual knot too, and I’m wondering if anything can possbily dislodge it now, or if, like winter itself, it will grandly overstay its welcome.

Hmph. Call it the luck of the Irish.

Previously: Ear rack

Subsequently: 100% From Concentrate

March 2003
the Archives
Home