00:00 - 16.01.08
Deep Freeze
The weather forecaster mentioned that a lot of people didn't sleep last night. No doubt. That violent wind storm went on forever. It sounded like a train about to drive through one's house. When I was growing up, one of our homes was a couple of blocks from an active railway line - I know whereof I speak. Gusts - depending which channel one watched - from 60 - 90 km/hr.
It wasn't quite as severe today, but when I disembarked from the train downtown I found I couldn't breathe for the power in that wind. Headed for the police station first to file a report about the letter I received last week that stated my credit application had been rejected - that application that I had never submitted - since there was about half an hour still until my scheduled interview. There are two police buildings in the core, so I went to the one closest to the train platform first. The woman with the lovely south of England accent tried to comfort me. I couldn't talk you see and I think she thought it was from fear not the weather conditions. I didn't even have enough breath to explain it to her. She said that I had come to the wrong building anyway and would have to walk one block north and then one block west to the other police station. Fair enough, I still had time to spare as long as the other station wasn't too busy.
That wind was still an issue, but I pulled my hood over my face to block it this part of the journey. Stepped inside that building remembering the last time I was there. Upstairs in an interview room with two detectives about the so-called riot at the end of the workday that had taken place at one of the stations near my community several years ago. I had disembarked from the train and was heading for the bus when the sea of black on the verge of the road caught my attention. Black police uniforms and Black and Asian high school students. I've written to you about that incident before, dear diary, so I won't go into detail again, but the memory still triggered a strong psychological response as I stepped inside that building again. This time the gentlemen who greeted me had an accent that was a deep Scottish burr. It was as though I was visiting my grandparents on my Mom's side again between the two stations. Hmmmm. He directed me to the officer taking reports for the day. Big, burly guy with an enormous blue/green tattoo on his left forearm and a police uniform too. Disconcerting and intimidating, but he was very kind in a rough, gruff sort of way. He said that no crime had been committed - technically - because the attempt to defraud had been unsuccessful. He asked me to write a statement anyway "to file as information". Took a photocopy of my photo identification and the letter as well. He had the same reaction to it as I had done - not a legitimate letterhead nor was the information contained on it normal for a credit granting body - no telephone number and a post office box in another city for an address. Good enough. He said that would be all the proof I would need should a creditor come after me for any money this person(s) would be able to secure using my identity. I asked if I should give a copy to my bank/credit card company. "Not yet", was his response. He asked why had attended the downtown office when there was one closer to my home. I explained that it was on my way to my job interview and just easier to reach. He made a point of getting me through the process quickly so that I wouldn't be late for it. Nice guy.
Headed off to the meeting, still with that lined hood covering my face. I was afraid I might have a fit of coughing or lose my voice otherwise, even before I had a chance to talk with the interviewer. I had taken the last dose of steroids just before I left home so it wouldn't have been a good choice to take more so soon after,you see. Slipped into the washroom near the food court to tame my mane of hair and to insert my contacts. I hadn't dared wear them outside in that wind, given the amount of blowing grit from our streets - the substance being used to help vehicles with traction and to reduce the ice build up this time of year, you see. Still made it up to the correct floor with time to spare. The receptionist was busy switching between English, Italian and Spanish as she spoke. Hmmmm. The interview went very well. I really liked the supervisor and would like the job just to have the opportunity to work with her for a while. The downside of the discussion was that the position was a temporary assignment only with no guarantee of work past a couple of months. She actually recommended a couple of other businesses who were looking for full time workers, even though she said she needed someone like me for her own project. We chatted for an hour. It was a very in-depth discussion of my skill sets/experiences. Very satisfying and much more to the point as opposed to those behavioural questions - what animal would you choose to be.... Tyranosaurus Rex, mate. Never mind.
As a treat to myself for surviving yet another interview I took a quick detour through the artists' building on the way to the train platform. Once a place of ill-repute and then converted to a club for artists and journalists finally evolving to it's present incarnation as a maze of artist's lofts all in one place. Fascinating atmosphere. Ran for the platform just as my train was pulling up causing another coughing fit. Meant I had my own seat for a while until I got it under control. At the bus stop in my own community a new Canadian of a Middle Eastern persuasion asked me what the temperature was. Told her it was -7C. She clucked her tongue and said "No I mean the REAL temperature - with the wind chill". Her english was flawless and it was apparent that new as she was she had learned a great deal about the climate before arriving. She was wearing the long black abaya (coat) and hijab with a really pretty silver lace scarf over all, but it wasn't really warm enough when the REAL temperature was close to -20 C. The abaya was beautifully cut and form-fitting. I remembered my friend, who lived in the Middle East for a decade, commenting that a lot of the women would go to the tailors in France when they were on vacation to get their abayas custom made. My friend snorted a bit when she observed "The French - you know - they leave nothing to the imagination". I got the sense that my friend was not really in to haute couture whether of a European or Middle Eastern influence. My regular bus was nowhere to be seen and it was too cold and windy to risk waiting more than a few minutes for it so I climbed on the alternate choice. I was just warming up when we arrived at my stop even though the ride was about 15 minutes longer. Struggled to get to block to my home without having another bout of coughing. Called the agency to report back on the interview and made a big pot of hot soup to take the chill out of my body. My son said it tasted too much like vegetables, but since it was vegetable soup I'm not certain what else it should taste like. Anyway, time to crawl under my quilt to chase away the rest of the shivers. Good night dear diary.
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