Sunday
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My wife and son are across the strait visiting family, so
it's a bachelor weekend for the cat and I.  A quiet weekend
for both of us, it turns out, as befits our advancing
years. (I can't say for sure just how old Mister Fluffkin
is, as he was already getting on when we adopted him, but
the going estimate is approximately 107. I myself am not
quite that old, but getting there).

We both have our ways of (vainly) trying to stave off the
depredations of time. Fluffkin, sensibly, prefers to nap as
much as possible.  I, on the other hand, will sometimes
break out of my torpor and go to the gym, where I huff and
puff, grunt and groan, and possibly even perspire.  One can
only hope that the undoubtedly slight health benefits
outweigh the indignity of it all.  I've long since given up
hope it will do much to improve my appearance.

And that's where I was this morning, hitting the elliptical
trainer at the absurdly early hour of 10 o'clock. By which
time the gym was already packed with life's rich pageant,
such that I had not infrequently to wait for the privilege
of wracking myself on the vaguely medieval devices lining
the walls.  Such is January; the situation should be much
improved in a few weeks after the New Year's Resolution
crowd has fallen by the wayside.

Following my return home and a sensible lunch, I came to the
surprising conclusion that instead of spending the afternoon
on the sofa, I should go for a walk.  It was one of those
rare January days, with a perfectly clear blue sky, that
leaves one feeling slightly guilt ridden should one spend it
playing video games or reading trashy novels.  Also, I was
fresh out of trashy novels, and you can only re-read Raymond
Chandler so many times. (How many times? I'm not yet sure,
but probably less than a couple of hundred).

Needing to replenish my stock, I decided to give my walk
purpose and meaning by making my way downtown to Russell
Books, a fabulous used bookstore and local institution of
sorts, that is even older than I am (though not by much).
The walk, which takes about an hour, winds through some nice
older neighbourhoods. It was pleasant.  And pleasantly
nostalgic, evoking earlier, more penurious times in my life
when the long walk to the used bookstore was a staple of my
weekend entertainment.  Don't tell me I don't know how to
have a good time!

I came away with three novels: William Gibson's "Idoru",
which I've been meaning to re-read, and two by an author
I've never read before: Georges Simenon's "Maigret's
Holiday", and "The Man Who Watched Trains Go By".  I picked
up the Simenon books thanks to a recommendation from noted
anarchist Ken Knabb, whose website I stumbled upon a while
back.  He and I have similar tastes in escapist literature,
it would appear [1].  I'm really hoping I like Georges
Simenon.  If I do, I'll never run out of novels to read. He
wrote something like 170 of them!  The cat and I plan to
start "Maigret's Holiday" first, right after I finish this
phlog post


References
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[1] Bureau of Public Secrets
https://bopsecrets.org/gateway/literature/escapist.htm


Sun Jan 19 17:29:39 PST 2025