May 15th, 2002 - 10:19 a.m.

A stroll through Rosedale in the morning.

There is not much that is more pleasant then to wander about on a bright coolish mid-week morn in a semi-affluent neighbourhood. The streets dusted with flower petals. The knotted stately trees, towering above the purposely antiqued houses. The implantation of old world architectural details in an attempt at elegance. The occasional trial for the Japonesque. Curious stones, uprooted, miles away from their home.

The stylishly unemployed strolling with their fashionable hounds. The nannies in gold earrings, pushing the carriages of semi-precious brats, carrying with them an air of mild distress. The elderly eccentrics, all turtlenecked and loafered.

A mild breeze, charmingly rustling the drooping flowers. The discontented army of gardeners attacking new unwanted growth with their rude mechanical instruments.

A lady charmed by her wealth, picking out dried French flowers in order to decorate her home a la Provence. Full of structured bon mots and manicured tidiness.

(The memory laden scent of dried lavande. An ill fated omelette of wild champignons. Strawberries and cr�me fraiche. Spring asparagus, eaten outside, with fresh vinaigrette.)

Little shops stuffed with poetic and overpriced objets d�art. Meant to lend an illusion of worldliness to the less the humble flat. For the catered events and high noon teas. The meetings to discuss diets and scandalous gossip du jour.

Such a sense of hauteur, non?

N.

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