My Welsh husband never failed to mark Michaelmas (in late September) by remarking that it was time to put the sprouts on for Christmas.

It’s still snowing in southwestern Ontario, and the forecast indicates flurries all week. I’m finally wearing full winter kit, including boots, woollen socks, parka, hat, and serious mittens, an outfit that adds five minutes to my get out of the house routine.

My great-niece has had two expensive crises since September, running me lower in ready-use funds than I’ve been in years. Pension day rolls around at the end of every month, so all would have been well but for a fluke mistake at City Hall, where somebody pressed the Collect Property Tax button ten days early and suddenly my bank account was overdrawn. Colour me very, very pissed off, along with the rest of Stratford. I was shaken by the bolt of panic that hit me with the warning email; apparently more than 25 years of financial stability have not expunged the fears of my time as a freelancer.