Yonge Line, early Sunday morning

Last day to vote for the Canadian Blog Awards! Yours truly is nominated for "Best Blogosphere Citizen" and "Best Entertainment/Cultural Blog."

Vote here.

Caucasian woman, 70s, with damp curly hair, wearing a grey sweatshirt bearing the image of a stained glass window. Two umbrellas rest between her knees, one for her, one for her grandson who sits beside her, nose buried in a Game Boy Micro.

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote (Vintage)

Page 15:

Perry folded the map. He paid for the root beer and stood up. Sitting, he had seemed a more than normal-sized man, a powerful man, with the shoulders, the arms, the thick, crouching torso of a weight lifter -- weight lifting was, in fact, his hobby. But some sections of him were not in proportion to others. His tiny feet, encased in short black boots with steel buckles, would have neatly fitted into a delicate lady's dancing slippers; when he stood up, he was no taller than a twelve-year-old child, and suddenly looked, strutting on stunted legs that seemed grotesquely inadequate to the grown-up bulk they supported, not like a well-built truck driver but like a retired jockey, overblown and muscle-bound.

The boy wasn't getting into trouble anymore. That was good. And Mum was getting help, keeping straight, coming by each Sunday for dinner and a few shows before heading home. She had his room ready but knew it would take more than a couple of meetings to convince him she'd know when it was time to stop, to cool off and walk away. Yeah, he was in good hands with Grams, those soft hands that first dared to drain the bottle.