There are few things I would readily imagine to be of any retail interest to me. This is not because I am either above or below the mooring.  Indeed I flatter myself to recall what a devoted profligate I continue to be (though admittedly now with a degree of restraint and reasonableness); and, there are few things in life which surpass the pleasure I derive from the things I already enjoy (which I hasten to add is a daily venture on my part – that is, I relive the moment regularly).

This morning however – in spite of my insufferable indifference – whether because I am replete or overcome by logic, I serendipitously received two such retail communications (by way of Canada Post no less), one from a car dealership, the other from an ancient friend.

The letter from the car dealership was the General Sales Manager of an Ottawa Cadillac outlet whence I had purchased a car in 2024.  I wrote to the Manager and informed him (more for empirical statistical reasons than anything else) that since that purchase I had owned three new cars, two 2025 models as well as a 2026 model. I wagered that neither he nor his principle is likely to offer me anything other than what is pervasive in fulfillment of our compatible ambitions.

The other envelope which I received this morning (and I remind you how infrequently one receives anything by regular mail) was a certifiably delicious gift from my dear friend Miss Nancy Noodles whom I have known for over 50 years (since 1970). We were “birds of a feather” so to speak.

“Birds of a feather” (or “birds of a feather flock together”) is a proverb meaning people with similar interests, personalities, backgrounds, or traits tend to associate with each other. It often implies that those who share similar characteristics will seek each other out, often used neutrally or negatively, but sometimes to describe positive bonds.

More specifically Nancy and I were a classic duo – preferably in a bar room scene such as the Piccadilly Tavern where we laughed a great deal and shared moments with an equally longstanding friend who was then a professor of law and who is now living in the South Pacific.

The Piccadilly Tavern was a notable 1970s tavern located on Grafton Street in Halifax, Nova Scotia, often referred to as “the Pic”. It was located on the harbor side, across from Maxwell’s Plum, in the area where the Marriott Residence Inn is now built, and served as an early gay-friendly establishment.

I feel the need to remark that AI’s above rendition of the Pic is not entirely favourable because of the omission that until about 1971 women were prohibited to enter a bar such as the Pic. When the law changed Nancy and I made a point of frequenting the Pic and one other bar nearby – only to discover there were no powder rooms for women.  Notwithstanding the superficial obstacle Nancy stood to the contest and marched defiantly into the men’s room. Not long afterwards she exited the men’s room with the identical aplomb.  Apparently it was a small victory because no one objected. But, dear Reader, I think you’ll admit it was an historic manoeuvre on behalf of Miss Noodles.

But I see I have distracted myself from details about the important gift. To be succinct, it is a brooch.  Not just any brooch, but one with a poetic history:

Martini, martini..the drink I like the most;
Two I’m under the table,
Three I’m under the host!

No, no, no!  I’ve got it wrong.  I’ll have to look it up where she quoted it in her equally magnificent gift card which enveloped the brooch. Here’s what she wrote in the card about our old shared saying:

One martini,
Two martini,
Three martini – floor!

I’m keeping both the card and the gift.  And – back to the gift – it was a brooch, as I say.  That may sound to be a matter of small excitement. But I have been an inveterate champion of the brooch for eons.  I suspect the curious predilection may have begun in prep school while marching in the Highland Cadet Corps. Make no mistake, the Scots know their accessories! Whether the sgian-dubh, the kilt pin or the sporran.

Indeed I have a brooch which is a relic of my time in the Fraser Highlanders. And I have another which I purchased within the last couple of years; namely, an ornamental bee – the androgynous version of kitch. I even have a Cadillac brooch from my partner’s nephew.

While my current participation in this addiction is limited, my history is otherwise.  Unwittingly I found myself discovering the brooch at an early age.  I would buy brooches for my girlfriends.  Some I initially bought for myself but eventually admitted they were not for me. I gave the pieces to my sister and my two nieces.

This sobriety was short-lived.