(s)he got a messy bedroom on the edge of town

crawling into bed with someone who's been asleep for eight hours has its differences from waking up together.

This week I checked my mail three times in row, which I never do, as I had a three-day engagement up the street from the local post office. My PO box is down at the eye level of a two-year-old, right beside the front door. The bustlers burst through and cream me into the mailbox bank when I'm claiming my correspondence. The retirees scowl downward until I make eye contact, then break into their patented country-friendly smile. On each of these three days there were three single letters in my box.


- one confirming my admission for upcoming schooling.


- one from my alma mater, encouraging me to suggest two people to investigate its possibilities.


- one from the Nova Scotia Department of Tourism and Culture, the results of a grant application submitted three long months ago. In my squatting position I pressed the envelope tight against its contents and made out the words 'we regret to inform'.

'Yes!', I thought. 'Pheeeewwww...'