A shortage of capital letters
Pardon me, I’m a little distracted. So many good books to read that I’ve bridged my efforts across two electronic platforms, some paper bound product and a strong need to narrate something of my own. My effort to sort out musical style changes in a Chaconne don’t count for much, in passing.
Thankfully, TV had little of substance today, and while the radio carried a session with Rex Murphy that served to heap praise on our latest Canadian Nobel Prize Laureate In Literature, I ran out of capital letters. Not something that happens often. I guess I’m going to have to read some Alice Munro, who tends to favour the short story as a literary form.
The dog took over house watch duties from the front step while I made a quick supper saunter. The only thing out of the ordinary was someone tuning up a snowmobile on the front lawn, several houses down. The same house that hosts a huge RV, more cars than humans, a delivery van and a few other ragtag pieces of “tribute to the automobile age”. I won’t wave goodbye, however it works out.
And, in a thumbs-down salute to the global economy, I watched a documentary dealing with the rag trade. That’s clothes, for the most of us. The industry has abandoned this country and set sail for Bangladesh where wages are low and worker safety not even mentioned, honorably or otherwise. Sweat shops, when they aren’t catching fire or collapsing in a pile of gory rubble. Keeps those price points for a large part of our retail sector.
