Last Monday was a holiday.
It wasn’t one of the Big Five nationwide statutory holidays or anything; it was one of the ones that aren’t observed everywhere — this one is observed in about half the provinces in the country but not by all employers within those provinces. It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast, really. All I really know is that Ms. Rose had the day off so we made a list of stuff we were going to do.
Our list started with lunch. (It was meant to start at breakfast — and not a dog’s breakfast, either — but we (by which I mean I) didn’t get moving quickly enough. I must have added ‘sleep in’ to the beginning of the list. Funny that I have no memory of doing that.) Lunch was at the Insomniac Capriform Cafe because holiday lunches are often at the Insomniac Capriform Cafe and also because the ICC is about two hundred meters from the next thing on the list. (Apropos to absolutely nothing at all, this was the same lunch that was mentioned in ‘Silencing‘.)
The next thing on the list was a skate in Market Square.
A decade ago there was no skating rink in Market Square. Sometime around then, though, a ‘group’ ‘identified’ several ‘Community Priorities.’ These ‘priorities’ included building a wildly expensive arena in an industrial park, a ‘Large Venue Entertainment Centre’ with no parking and a ‘revitilization’ of the Market Square. ‘Revitilization’ meant taking out parking meters, repaving, adding a fountain, selling naming rights and
Building a skating rink.
Whatever else I might say about the ‘revitilization’ (and I can rant at considerable length if desired), the rink has been very popular. Last Monday was no exception. It was a gorgeous winter day: chilly but not too chilly if you know what I mean, bright and sunny. The rink was full. Full of young men posturing and showing off. Full of young women not posturing or showing off (Although one was — with good reason. She skated very, very well. It doesn’t bug me a whole lot when someone that good at something flaunts it a little.). Full of families. (It was ‘Family Day’, after all.)
I watched a father-daughter pair for a while. The daughter looked to be about five years old and wore pink skates. She would take about three strides all the while loudly proclaiming that she “couldn’t do this” then fall over backwards. Dad would catch her, put her back on her skates and the process would repeat. And repeat. And repeat. It was positively enchanting. All I could think was
You can get pink skates?
I had no idea. I mean, every pair of skates I’ve ever owned has been black or brown. I’ve also seen white ones and blue ones and gray ones. But pink ones? Before last Monday, I had no idea they existed.
I looked further. There were pink skates. There were purple skates. There were pink scarves. There were purple hats. In fact, every single young person of the female persuasion was wearing something pink, something purple or something pink and purple.
(Don’t tell Ellen. She’d just get upset.)
While I was doing my little census, a young lady caught my eye. I probably noticed her because she was skating alone — not many people were. As she skated around she was exchanging text messages with someone. I don’t know what impressed me more — that she could skate and text at the same time or that she could read her phone display in the bright sunlight. I remember thinking “That’s not something you see every day.”
Her phone was pink. Of course.