The sky today is a flat velvetty grey, a uniform blanket of mournfulness with scarcely a shard of white or blue difference. Having decided  (for the nonce I am certain) that Mozart, Chopin and Gershwin are predictable and therefore unattractively repetitive, I am for the moment uplifted and diverted instead by Vangelis, Alexis Ffrench and Ennio Morricone. The diverse entertainment has easily trumped listening to the news about shooting, endless political rebuttals and perilous economic prediction. There is an uncommonly large flock of Canada geese floating upon the river. Comically they maintain a vague resemblance of a V-shape even on the water. In spite of – or perhaps because of – their seemingly purposeless congregation, they appear to be on the verge of departure. Things everywhere echo preparation for retirement or evaporation: late crop harvesting in the Village of Blakeney, a stored travel trailer in the backyard of a rural residence along the Panmure Road, the late dawn and the early sunset.

As reluctant as I am to confess it, the perfection of this dismal day may be no more than the organic result of a passably good sleep last night. It wasn’t until almost ten o’clock this morning that I sprang from the lair. It was an unforgivable appeasement amplified by having retired relatively early last evening almost 12 hours earlier. My innate capitalism immediately revived upon awakening and obliged me – after an exceptionally relieving breakfast of 2 fried eggs (with just touch of Maldon salt) and a bowl of steel cut oats with a skilfully mashed banana – to descend to the subterranean garage to circulate upon my tricycle for a statutory 3Km.

This restorative mission was easily accomplished because inadvertently I spoke casually with a number of people, the preoccupation of which estranged me from focussing upon the odometer (I love its nautical derivative from the Greek “hodos” meaning “way”). Upon removing my tricycle from its cage, I first spoke with a neighbour who – after a moment’s pleasantry – divulged that it was her 86th birthday. Following the expected platitudes, we exchanged information about motor vehicles, Driver Licence testing (and an associated scam to rob elderly people of $1,200 for implausible bureaucratic purposes), Christmas tree decoration (for which she intended to enlist her son) and then arrived at the general conclusion that all was well.

Next upon a car entering the garage to park, a gentleman emerged carrying two homemade tourtière pies which he had collected from the Civitan community service club. When I enquired further he advised me  the pies were destined to others as gifts. Subsequently I discovered the CIvitan pies (which had to have been ordered and paid for over a week ago) were SOLD OUT. We subsequently telephoned Tea and Cake but were told they only prepare the pie to order with 48-hours notice. Hence our precipitous attempt to enable culinary facility had failed. We’ve opted for the alternative preparatory ambition.

Finally I paused to chat with a gentleman coming to collect his automobile. He asked about my well-known obsession with a daily car wash. We pursued at some length the differences between Petro-Canada, Halo Car Wash and Circle K. Not unlike many others he preserves his identity with washing his own vehicle. But he admitted its diminishing allure.

Following this catalogue of social activity and athleticism, I felt entitled to my ritual drive.  Forgive me, dear Reader, for announcing – no doubt unnecessarily and tiresomely – that from the instant I get into the car and touch my foot upon the brake pedal (which, apart from simply closing the door, is all that is required to “start the engine”) I am in a cabin of enviable retreat.  All the bells chime and the vast Driver Information Centre alights. Once propelled along the most conventional neighbourhood avenue I am treated to an indescribably pacifying mechanism – though at times along the highway I wickedly exert its hidden horsepower upon entering a filter lane.

It was a clear and uninterrupted drive along the Appleton Side Road to Hwy#15 into Stittsville where I put the car through its cleansing procedure. Then I pointed the hood towards Arnprior where I eventually turned around and came back home – this time along the Panmure Road through the Village of Blakeney. Now I’m sipping my espresso – having eaten a tiny bowl of apple sauce in yoghurt – listening to my insulating music through the Bose™ headphones.

Meanwhile the sun has set, the geese have gone…