townie

How long have you been away, the jiffy cab driver asked as we were tooling down Portugal Cove Road.

Staring at the my skin, I say that no I am not from here but constantly come up. I am heading into to a new life as a townie, through Rawlins Cross past the old mile one of the Transcanada turning right then left past a the City Superette that I photographed some time ago.

Getting to the new digs, there is no key where Peter said it would be left and there is a light on in the flat that I am to occupy. Had I made a mistake?

Knock and Peter answers he is finishing up the bedclothes and shows me through the place. Am tired but there is a chat about current affairs before he takes off.

Am no longer tired, better still my life of not 24 hours earlier is a distant memory. While I am not a bayman this time, I am sort of looking forward to being able to walk to the Georgetown Bakery, not have to risk driving after the Duke, to be able to pick up a Globe and Mail without heading some 15 km down the road, and wander the neighbourhood without have to worry about parking or leaving early so that they will still be depopulated.

But first, sleep