The trip was good. I expected it to be awesome, so the fact that it was just good was momentarily disappointing. Then I remembered how spoiled I am and all was well. There was a fair bit of rain, particularly in London (obviously) but wet feet aren't the worst thing (things?) in the world by a long shot.
Being in Toronto means seeing family, and I'm calling all completed visits successful thus far, specifically because not one loving relation has yet come around to outwardly criticising my weight, skin, job, and/or or mental capacity! Woo Hoo! There's still time, of course, but I'm assuming that this surprising turn may or may not be a reward for my having laid eyes on the pope. I can't be sure, but frankly and regardless, it's about freakin' time.
Visiting Toronto so often feels like time travel for me, and this trip has been no exception. If you've read Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife, you'll appreciate that this is dangerous. It's sort of like space travel, I think. We're not very good at it. Some of the smartest people in the world have either exploded or disintegrated in the attempt, but we keep doing it anyway.
Playing cards with Judas and ignoring that bit of broken foam,