It’s been a good weekend – a weekend off from work, for starters (although I did need to spend yesterday afternoon sorting out my Canadian tax receipts) – a little bit of a sleep-in on Saturday morning, attending a performance of the Amadeus Choir at Trinity-Saint Paul’s on Bloor Street with Chris and Paul yesterday evening, then the Basquiat exhibition at the AGO this morning (a great show, potent, vibrant, startling works of art) and then the theatre with Steven and Elizabeth Turnbull at the Tarragon Theatre this afternoon: a new play, Infinity, three strong, intense performances staged just feet away in the small theatre, and a beer together afterwards at The Pour House.

But the best part was this: sitting out, on the front porch, with a glass of white wine and a cigar, reading Robert Crawford’s biography of the young T.S. Eliot – and listening to the slow release of winter’s grip on us, sensing the sunlight, meditating on the crocuses that have appeared, pushing up through dead leaves and detritus, under the wooden deck.

Any day now, the magnolia will be blooming.