Snow is uncharacteristic of Vancouver, becoming yet jarring. It snows and then it rains. It doesn’t usually freeze for a week and then snow again and again. Standing in a high place, the white roofs and lacy branches cradling white stuff make a marvellous view. I find myself running out of sweaters.

And bundled up proudly in my bright scarf that I knit myself (the only thing that I’ve made for myself so far) and gloves that are still with me four years out of Japan’s central-heating free winter, I say “Man I’m bloody well freezing my ass off.” And to which the Easterner replies, “Oh this isn’t cold. Back in (name your Buttfucknowhere here) its -50 this time of year, plus windchill…”

Its fitting that the heat (and the hot water, for a spell) has chosen to make itself rare this week. Last week I cozied up in blankets, hibernated with coffee and Saved By the Bell reruns and email, this week I feel ready for the outside world again. But I am starting to wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have some more seclusion time. Even the people I know I avoid seeing, in particular wanting to avoid the How Have You Been and Here’s What I’ve Been Doing Conversation. This morning, former coworkers on their way to my former workplace… at first I genuinely didn’t see them when I got on the bus, and then I deliberately chose to avoid seeing them. Such a silly bitch thing to do.

For some reason Happy New Year refuses to trip off my tongue.

I hope for something unexpected to happen when I go outside, someone to arrive or the start of an adventure, and it never seems to come true. It seems always the same movement among strangers and store clerks and spare change junkies.

Perhaps it is my hardened, impatient, urban demeanour frightening the dickens out of would-be bringers of fun and happiness and free meals who would otherwise appear in buses and at parties to offer their goodies. Perhaps my wedding ring is taken for a sign of possession and otherwise, well, deadness to the role of chance.

I am mostly shell and scar tissue.