I got it into my head that it would be a perfectly reasonable thing to print on two inch wide paper tape with the Golding Jobber № 8.

Paper tape turns out to be really sticky, and so its natural inclination is to stick to the type, and thus get sucked into the rollers. This is not a good thing. To prevent this, I printed each impression, quickly stopped the press before the danger of sucking was upon me, rolled out another few feet of tape, and repeated. It’s by no means a perfectly registered job, or even, really, a registered job at all.

But it kind of worked. And the result will appear in the vestibule of 100 Prince Street once it’s dry.

I’m (very) slowly breathing new life into our living room. First up, a new area rug from IKEA.

Back in the day ordering online from IKEA meant long waits and exorbitant delivery fees; no longer: I ordered the rug on Monday night and it arrived Thursday morning and shipping was just $24.

Redecorating is equal parts therapeutic and really, really hard; my next step is to replace the sofa that Catherine and I bought in 1998, our first real non-futon adult furniture purchase.

I think Yazoo Mills is my new favourite company. I really wish I had a compelling need for cores or tubes.

Their FAQ page is particularly notable, inasmuch as it appears to actually contain questions that are frequently asked, among which:

What’s the difference between a tube and a core?

A tube is used to put something inside and a core denotes that something is wound onto it.

Do you have any minimums?

We have no minimums. We will make you a single tube, box full, or a truckload.

What lengths can you do?

Any length up to 53 feet.

A 53 foot tube! The mind boggles with possibilities.

I also like that they include the FAQ titled “Services We Do Not Offer”: all company websites should include this section. 

As part of trying to restore access to my disabled Instagram account, which I do now only for sport, without a sense of urgency, I received this very unusual error message from Facebook (even though, at the time, I wasn’t “on Facebook,” but rather “on Instagram”). I’ve written my fair share of error messages in my day, but I don’t think I’ve ever achieved this surreal height.

See also You Need To Calm Down.

Where is the Heart of My Country by Caitlin Canty is a lovely song that opens with the verse:

It’s raining in Los Angeles hallelujah hallelu
Moonflowers open to breathe the night’s perfume
The city climbs the hillside 
Just to see the color bloom
Petals turn a sidewalk stream jacaranda blue

Jacaranda blue turns out to be the perfect use-case for Google Image Search:

Circumstances required that 20 blue bags filled with recycling be moved from the Upper Prince division to the Prince division of the family compound early this evening. 

As an important plank of my personal carbon mitigation effort is simply “take things I’d normally use a car for, and don’t,” this seemed like a perfect opportunity to strap the canoe to my bicycle and use it as a recycling scow. And that’s exactly what I did. Two trips did it.

Brother Mike generously provided video evidence of my efforts (technically I committed a “rolling stop” traffic violation, but I did use proper hand-signals, which should count for something, and I had flashing lights and a high viz vest on, which should count for a little more). 

Also: Upper Prince Street, what’s with the crows!?

As far as consumables go, a little letterpress ink goes an awfully long way: I’m still working off the black ink pot I purchased more than a decade ago, and at this rate it will last another decade.

But it was time to broaden my horizons beyond black, red, and yellow, so I ordered up a set of 15 tiny pots from StudioMeowy in Bristol. Seven days later and here it is!

Purple! Silver! Gold! Fluorescent pink! Both opaque and transparent white! Blue!

My colleagues and I at Bike Friendly Communities have launched a survey about cycling in greater Charlottetown that I invite you to take. Take it if you’re an avid cyclist. Take it (especially) if you’re not an avid cyclist, or not a cyclist at all.

One of the gifts—actually maybe the only gift—of having your partner up and die on you is that it’s a complete reset for what’s the worst thing that could happen!?

It has taken a long time for me to conceive of this as a gift, but I’m coming around, and committing (usually very) small acts of heretofore inconceivable bravery.

Today I found myself with a slightly bruised heart, and instead of crawling under the covers, I decided instead to level up, and went to Laurie Murphy’s Improv Drop-in Class at the Haviland Club.

I was terrified at the prospect, and, to be honest, I almost bolted, even as I was climbing the stairs up to the front door.

But I didn’t bolt.

I did walk in the front door.

And joined a small but hearty band of two others, improv newbies each of us, in 90 minutes of improvisational derring-do.

And I loved it.

Perhaps not surprising for someone who’s long dreamed of joining a competitive charades league. But charades is an individual sport where improv is a team sport, and absolutely everything that was great about tonight had to do with being vulnerable with strangers.

It was exactly what I needed.

Laurie’s classes are drop-in, run every Monday night in November from 7:00 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., and are $25 a night. She proved a patient, encouraging teacher who helped us all stretch out of our comfort zones.

I’ll be back next week.

Max Braithwaite wrote a profile of Mary Grannan for Maclean’s in 1947. Grannan’s Just Mary stories on the CBC played an outsized role in the childhood of my parents’ generation.

Mary gets her ideas for her stories from what she sees about her. For instance she was recently walking with a friend along Dundas Street in Toronto when she noticed a church steeple without a top.

“I wonder where the weathercock went off that steeple,” the friend remarked.

“I’ll tell you next Sunday,” Mary assured her. And she did in “The Strange Adventures of Lucy Littlemouse,” which featured a mouse with a new bonnet who wanted to be of some use in the world and who climbed up on the church steeple, gnawed the golden weathercock loose, and took his place with disastrous results.