Over the last few weeks, I’ve been guilty of the ‘Toronto Special’; I’ve conveniently (or subconsciously) forgotten how quickly the seasons change, and watched, over-dressed and mouth agape, both the mercury rising and the explosion of flora. The tree in front of my apartment, once so naked and bare, is now covered with fresh growth.
Hogtown is shaking off the cobwebs and putting on its Sunday Best, just in time for tourist season, when it matters most.
This change in season, and with it the awkward realization that “no backpacks at BMO” means overstuffed pockets and looking like a pack-mule — or the impetus to invest heavy in cargo pants — has had a knock-on effect on my mood.