I walked out this morn­ing in my linen pants and orange golf shirt in the 11°C weath­er. The sun was just over the hori­zon and a light fog was in the air, wash­ing every­thing in a thin orange haze. It was so refresh­ing to be cold again, to see my breath hang heavy in the air. Maybe I was just hyper from exhaus­tion, but it felt as if noth­ing could pos­si­bly be wrong on a day like this.

The sat­ur­day morn­ing rit­u­al is as fol­lows:

8:00 am — Wake up, get dressed, search change tin for $5.18 sand­wich mon­ey
8:15 am — Leave apart­ment for table ten­nis prac­tice, lis­ten to Billy Talent’s self titled debut album on the way there
9:00 am — Arrive at club, play for two hours, lose half of body weight in sweat
11:00 am — Curse how fast the time went by, leave club, lis­ten to Thrice’s Artist in the Ambulance album on the way back
11:30 am — Arrive at Centre, pur­chase roast beef sand­wich at Michelle’s Baguette. If answer­ing “please” to every top­ping sug­ges­tion, the per­son will go in the back and get the fresh­est let­tuce leaves
12:00 pm — Arrive home, put on bor­ing tele­vi­sion to fill silence but not dis­tract too much from the sand­wich, savour mul­ti-lay­ered taste of roast beef on fresh­ly baked pop­py seed bread with let­tuce, toma­toes, cucum­bers, and mayo, thank the gods of lemon iced tea
12:15 pm — Shower
12:25 pm — Go back to sleep