The move was horrendous. Here are the salient points.

~ It was raining. really, really raining, with an occasional lost snowflake dropping in just to chortle at the state of affairs.

~ Moving-truck driver challenged a chestnut tree to a duel. Chestnut tree won and truck lost its side loading door. Completely. Ripped the thing right off.

~ The half-loaded, and doorless, truck is unloaded, in anticipation of replacement truck’s immanent arrival. Large raindrops have joined the snowflakes’ gleeful chorus.

~ Accidents happen. Movers seem to be dealing with it, so we head off to the lake, in anticipation of new carpet arriving, before our possessions. (The original carpet is a gruesome combination of 70’s sculptured yellow and 4 decades of hard usage) – ‘scuse me, I have to take a moment to mourn that the 70’s was so long ago. Le sigh!

~ We wait.

~ Still raining.

~ Still waiting.

~ Carpet arrives and we roll it out before our possessions turn up.

~ They don’t.

~ We wait some more, and have expensive cell-phone conversations with new moving truck driver who appears to be lost. How can someone work in the moving business not have a map?

~ Owner of moving business, states, and I quote, “What do you want me to do about it?”

~ Eventually we drive into town to guide the driver in.

~ Still raining.

~ Unloading starts. We discover they have left behind our rather expensive bicycles … not in the apartment, not even in the building foyer. Oh no. These idjits left them OUTSIDE the building.

~ My bicycle is modified to compensate for the missing half of my right knee, and therefore expensive to replace.

~ Only be the grace of Herself, and the fact that the neighbourhood is a very bike friendly place, are our bikes still there after 2 hours. They are rescued and are to be delivered by the idjit who forgot them, several days forward from this one.

~ Mover tries to charge us for the extra time it took to complete the job. He survived the encounter only because he still had to deliver the bikes.

~ Five days after the move, our bikes arrive.

~ Move is complete.

~ Still raining.

~ A week after the move, the sun is shining, the lake is all blue-green and shiny. Widdercat has ventured forth past the front step. It’s a good day.

~ I wonder if I’ll ever figure out why there are so many more bolts and screws than I’ll ever need to put the bookshelves back together again.

P.S. Will have pics of lake when I find the camera – the one in my cell phone refuses to speak to me.


“It’s been a long time since I’ve written old-fashioned sword and sorcery; I’m hoping it’s like riding a bicycle”Lynn Abbey

Vancouver Box Collector Loses Perfect Record

I have fallen from grace. The other day Mrs Widds and I, went out and bought, yes, bought, moving boxes. The fact that they were made from 100% recycled material (that’s what it says on the box and we all know that signage and advertising never lies) and, that we only bought five, doesn’t alter this sad occasion.

With only two days to go before the golden moment when we see the moving truck pull up to our front door, it’s time to take a temporary leave of absence from the interwebz. After today I won’t have a desk to put my trusty desktop computer, or anything else, on top of!

I’ll still check in a bit via laptop. But, this is it folks. Next time you hear from me I’ll be, Widders of the Lake!

One day I want a spirit-room like this:



“The only really firm rule of taste about cross-dressing is that neither sex should ever wear anything they haven’t yet figured out how to go to the bathroom in” P. J. O’Rourke 

Catching Up

Mrs Widds and I, closely monitored by WidderCat, are moving!

It’s something we’ve talked about off and on for quite a while. The how’s and where’s and when’s of it have contributed to the ‘off and on’ part of our process.

During our courtship era, we discovered that, although born and growing up on opposite sides of the planet, our lives had followed many common threads. One of which is that we’re country gals at heart.

We have found great solace and joy in our little third-floor tree-house apartment in the city. For three years the magnificent Chestnut trees outside our windows have allowed us to breathe when our lives would wind us up so tight, we thought we might break.

Now we are leaving.

We are going to live on an island in the middle of a lake!

Which is not quite as romantic as it sounds, unfortunately. There are others living there in houses of all sorts of shapes and sizes. We will gain an extra bedroom, a yard of our own, and access to the private lake-front beach only 50 meters (yards) away.

We will lose the immediacy of urban living, and our Chestnut trees, and the birds the size of flying meeces who drink from their leaves when it rains.

Did I mention it’s an island, in the middle of a lake?

Packing has commenced and the removalists are booked. (I swore, the last time we moved that we were NOT going to do it ourselves again … slinging furniture, and lots, and lots, and lots of boxes into trucks is a young person’s game)

We are entering a time of transition. I have lived here in Vancouver for nearly eight years and Mrs. Widds, for over twenty. Transitions are always troublesome. There’s often a vaccum between what has gone before and what has not yet arrived. We will be loving and understanding of each other’s stress points, and we will laugh at the absurdities that will inevitably try to trip us up.

It’s time to go.


“Writing is one of the few professions in which you can psychoanalyse yourself, get rid of hostilities and frustrations in public, and get paid for it”Octavia Butler (1947-2006)