I have to get out the rake and clear my lawn of sprigs of leaves and small branches torn from the maple trees by last week's windstorms. It looks messy, and I expect young Georgia with the lawn mower today. I don't like the idea of a chopped-up maple twig launching at speed from the mower's output straight into her leg. Or anybody else's.

The holiday weekend is finally over and, with it, Stratford's semi-annual indulgence in fireworks. (The other firework-associated festival is Victoria Day in May.) On Saturday, with Canada Day receding in the rear-view mirror, the air reverberated well into the night with explosions unpleasantly reminiscent of small-arms fire. I rather suspect beer was involved.

The cats were bothered far less than I was. They just gazed out the bedroom window like patrons at the opera, taking in the night birdsong.