My Own Private Wednesday
The pong of Wednesday morning. The noxious, malodorous, stench of compost bins strewn half emptied across sidewalks, blown by gusts of wind into bike lanes, across driveways, randomly dancing into traffic. Blue and yellow garbage trucks piggy back one on top of the other a block apart refreshing the ripe atmosphere every few metres. Should have picked a different route. Something about wanting to stay alive, keep to the the bike route, south to Dundas, west to River, south to King. Wednesday mornings are quickly losing their appeal to her increasingly nauseated self. They must have changed the schedule or moved the parameters of the neighbourhood pick up. It used to be that the early mid week morning ride to work was her own private universe. No one on the roads, lanes clear, lights green the whole way through. Quiet, still, slumbrous. No buses or carpools, no screaming, anxious, angry children reluctantly offloading in front of the school. It's all in the timing. Fifteen minutes o...