Pseudo Jefferson

I'm not so much 'moving on up to the east side' as I'm 'moving on over to the east end.' That's right, this boy is pulling up stakes and moving to the Beach. Those in the know call it the "beach" and not the "beaches"; that label is used by those I now drolly call 'out of towers.'

My heart, and soul, will certainly miss my friends at the Dollhouse and of course Fauntleroy and Kitkat. But as I sit here listening to Victoria Day celebrations going on a little too long, and watch the neighbourhood hoodlums actually chase each other with fireworks alight in their hands, shooting them at each other, a certain part of me is not so sad to leave.

Don't get me wrong, at hoodlum age, running amuck with handheld explosives would have indeed seemed a fine idea. I'm sure, as was the natural course of events, Mr. Tufts would have called the police and we would have either hid on the school roof or under Mr. Spencer's hedge, adrenaline pumping and fits of giggles ensuing.

As I flutter about packing my good dishes, Royal Doulton's Alice pattern, I feel a little like Prissy in Gone With the Wind as she prepares for departure from Atlanta. Excuse the Martha Stewart reference in the clip, it's the only one I could find but you get the gist of the situation. I really could do without the stress. I've labeled my boxes of fragile items with "To be moved by Robert only" to save us all any added stress. If I move it an break it, I have no one to blame but myself.

If this had been my first year of seeing 30 or more of these hooded figures running about in the dark I would be more concerned. As it is year 5, it's par for the course and part of the "spice" of my little slice of New Toronto.

I doubt however that I shall miss it very much. I like fireworks as much as the next girl, but having them zing onto my wooden deck and zoom across my front porch (scorching my hydrangea) does not bode well for a good night's sleep.

As I prepare to nod off, I shall prepare a list of things I won't miss about the neighbourhood in the hopes of offsetting the loneliness that will surely come from moving away from such close friends:

1. Finding a pry bar in my front garden - about a week after my neighbour was broken into. Coincidence? 
2. Finding knives in the same front garden. That's correct, plural. Granted one was the previously blogged about gay blade, so at the very least a good story. The other one, a rather large kitchen knife. 
3. Pitbull attack. Thankfully NOT plural.
4. Having a large muddy boot print left on my front door. In the middle of the night. What? Forgot your pry bar a**hole? 
5. Carolling Carol. I have no idea what her real name is, perhaps I should have asked, but as she can't sing and I always feared she was casing my place (and not really raising money to buy Christmas 'gifts') I preferred the polite 'no thank you' path and a closing of the door as I pressed various buttons on my alarm system.

That averages to one not so delightful event a year (6 if you count each knife incident as a single, but why split hairs?) which in the grand scheme of things is not so bad. I only hope in my new home I don't get have my door kicked in by a knife wielding, pit bull owning, pry bar leveraging singer because that would just not be fair.