We had a dinner party last night with too much wine (i.e., somewhat less than I used to be able to put away without hardly noticing), so today I am hanging around while my aging metabolism deals with the aftereffects. The dinner was great, if I do say so myself, with delicious food (All My Own Work) and plenty of conversation so sparkling I could barely get a word in edgewise.

Among the good things about a dinner party is the fact that bourgeois pride forces me to clean the damned house before the company comes. So the sitting room carpet looks like Bokhara again, rather than something run up from the pelts of small animals.

On this first day of autumn, the weather is excellent: clear sky, not hot, gentle breeze.

Two days ago, another line squall off Lake Huron blasted through town, and I thought we had experienced some Truly Dramatic Weather. Um, not so much. At about the same time in Ottawa, where we lived until a year ago, a similar weather system generated not one but two tornadoes that walloped several suburban neighbourhoods before crossing the river to Quebec and doing something similar to the city of Gatineau. On Facebook, I learned that The Brothers and their wives were assessing the damage in gingerly fashion, pleased to find their own roofs and windows intact but lacking electrical power or any clear idea when it would be restored; today, they are still in the dark both ways. One of the tornadoes plowed into an Ottawa Hydro power station in the south end, and the photos I saw on the Ottawa Citizen website looked like the aftermath of a bombing.

I admire Senoufou's ability to dispose of Xmas decorations. We have quite a few that I will eventually smash "accidentally" as they are both tatty and worn, and loaded with sentimental memories. When The Brothers visit us during the festive season, there is always a session of "Where is the [insert name of old family doohickey] that we always [insert traditional disposition thereof]?" Himself, as the fourth of five children in an immigrant family, has no such baggage, so he energetically creates his own, coming home a week before Christmas with boxes of new baubles and a sheepish grin. By the time Epiphany rolls around, I am ready to toss the lot into the fireplace with a blazing torch.

Speaking of fireplaces, I noted with interest the burn barrel in Stilly's garden, which I saw in a photo she posted on Facebook. I would *love* a burn barrel, but Stratford by-laws forbid trash burning in residential areas within town limits. It would almost be worth moving to the country (plow your own snow, lousy Internet service) for the privilege of incineration.