It's taken as a given that a sublime summer afternoon would be very different for a boy of fifteen than it is for a man who turned fifty-five a few days ago. It's untrue and I'm warning you it's untrue. We stay ourselves and age without noticing.

Look, there I am, sitting under an olive tree on a bright August day. I'm sneering because I'm fifteen, and happy to be so. And look: here I am, sitting on a sidewalk patio, popping olives into my mouth. Very little has changed, apart from the forty years that went by so mysteriously.

How strange to think that if I were run into Sherry and Dorla again, they would be in their mid-fifties. It doesn't seem fair. No, it's not fair at all! Let me grow older with a strut and a twinkle in my eye, if such a thing is possible. Let Sherry and Dorla remain as they were -- bad girls with darting tongues, best friends with each other, and generous to so many desperate boys.

Last weekend I had the chance to pop in briefly to the Gerrard India Bazaar, yet another summer food festival. I lived in the neighbourhood for a few years during my self-imposed exile from the Danforth, and without question it's the sweetest smelling corner in the city. The nostrils flare, the taste-buds burst, and the eyelids droop to stare at the sight of so many women in multi-coloured saris. Thing is, I was in a rush and couldn't stay long. I looked up at the window of the apartment I used to live in and tried to imagine myself as I was back then. With a paper plate of aloo ghobi in one hand and a plastic fork in the other, I stood still for a moment or two. I was there, as Leonard Cohen once said of Montreal, "to renew my neurotic affiliations."

These nights aren't long at all when fretful things subside. You, yes you yourself, have landed most merrily in an easychair by the window with a glass of wine. You and your friends are in no immediate danger. You take off your shoes and socks and put your feet on the coffee table. It's the quietest ritual in the world.

It would have been appropriate, I guess, if it had been one of those rainy afternoons when all the shop windows melt into a dreary sort of yellow and grey. It was most inappropriate because it was a bright summer day when a friendly young gal walked in. The "occult" section of my shop was a small one, and after a while the customer in question walked up to my desk with her purchase. It was a cheap book-club edition of a book that was very popular in the Seventies: "Spindrift: Spray from a Psychic Sea" by Jan Bryant Bartell. It told the tale of "a true haunting" that occurred in a townhouse in Greenwich Villlage and resulted in several deaths (including the author's own, eventually).

A week or so later the woman returned, her young son in tow. It was overcast as I recall, a bit of a drizzle in the air. "Take this book back, I don't want it." She was visibly upset, but I had to explain that my shop was not a library, and I'd be willing to buy the book back for somewhat less than I'd sold it for. Then it all came spilling out. She had seen some sort of spirit, a gnomish thing, an elemental she called it, several times in her house, and so had her son. She went on to say that her tenant, an older man, had also seen it flitting by. Her entire household was freaked out, so please take back this book! Apart from her story she seemed quite with it. No obvious nutcase evidence. Well-dressed and all that. I felt sorry for her and offered her a full refund. No, she wouldn't take a penny. All she wanted was to leave the book with me.

Much later a friend suggested I offer the book for sale on eBay, and to tell the story I related above. It would be a selling point for the curious. I did so and it sold very quickly. Books aren't mailed until they're paid for, and the buyer showed no signs of wanting to pay me. Days went by, then weeks. Finally I sent an e-mail and asked what the problem was. The buyer wrote back very apologetically, and stated flatly that she was scared and could I just forget that she had won the auction! On eBay you can get back at non-paying buyers by giving them "a negative rating" on the site, but I didn't do that. I let it go. I contacted the second-highest bidder and asked if he still wanted the book for the price he had offered. He did. As far as I know he was happy with his purchase. Either that or he's dead.

5 Reviews 5 star: (2) 4 star: (3) 3 star: (0) 2 star: (0) 1 star: (0) See all 5 customer reviews...

Craig Smith recently interviewed me as part of his “Seven Questions” interview project. Here’s the interview.

The gentleman whose name I forget was a book collector, but his areas of interest were few. Or, I should say, his areas of interest were two: he collected various editions of "Alice in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking-Glass." By the time I met him he had apparently amassed hundreds of copies published all over the world.

All the book dealers in the city knew him because he would drop into the shops from time to time and ask if anything interesting had come our way. Books would be offered but they almost always turned out to be editions he already owned. Only once did I do business with this cultured, kind and elderly gent. I'd bought a box of books some weeks earlier and at the bottom of the box was (of all things) a Spanish language comic-book version of Alice. I gave it to him (it had no particular value) but he insisted on paying something. I think I charged him a dollar.

I've often wondered if he may have been in love with Alice Liddell, the real-life Alice...or, to be precise, in love with his idea of Alice. Lewis Carroll was certainly in love with her.

When the gentleman whose name I forget passed away some years later, his will stipulated that his collection be donated to the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library.

Where did the bowl for my casserole go? I'm sounding like A.A. Milne but this is serious. How could I lose a big bowl like that in a kitchen this small? My friend Craig has hinted that objects occasionally disappear into other dimensions. It's a plausible explanation but I'm still thinking of calling the cops. The noodles are done, the sauce is done, and now I need the casserole bowl.

Often when it's just getting dark I take a shortcut home through Withrow Park. I have a favourite bench I'll sit down on with my packages. If I walk five minutes east I'll be on Gerry and Kathy's doorstep. If I walk west it will be Kevin and Marushka's place. Those two houses of ill-repute have been welcoming to me for years. I've rarely dropped by unannounced but when I have all goes well. Up with the music and down with the pints, as old friends do.

The most beautiful and evocative piece of music I know is "Discreet Music" by Brian Eno. I've always associated my favourite songs with the seasons, but this isn't a song -- it's a classical piece and to my mind it isn't confined to any particular season. And it doesn't strike me as otherworldly -- it's the world I live in and the streets I walk. I suppose it's best to listen to this very quiet album when it's quiet outside, but tonight the windows are open. And I've opened a bottle of wine to let the music waft over the traffic and waft over me.

I don't know what he's all about. He has a Santa Claus beard and Santa Claus hair. He owns three suits at least, but the pants are very ragged at the bottom, ragged to the point of trailing behind him in shreds. Sometimes he's wearing good shoes, and sometimes old sneakers. And he carries a battered briefcase. I've seen him many times over the last two years and at various times of day. He walks up and down the Danforth, sometimes talking to himself, and his eyes on the sidewalk. I keep thinking he might be some Willy Loman who lost his job long ago...and some sort of breakdown occurred...but every morning he puts on his clothes and heads out again.

It's always the same every year: I'll wake up around two in the morning when the festival is over and know that my neighbourhood has been given back to me. A few people will still be walking home, and the street will still be closed to traffic for hours. And it's not the sort of quiet I hated so much in the suburbs. It isn't death-like in the least...the Danforth is simply pausing to take a breath. And when I go out in the morning on my errands the faces will be familair, the air sweet with an aftertaste of the weekend, and my heart full to bursting.

It's quiet for the moment, but in a couple of hours the annual three-day "Taste of the Danforth" festival begins. Last year over a million people showed up, dressed in the most appalling suburban clothing. Forget about playing music, watching tv or even talking: my street is far too loud. At least the Canadian Olympic Trampoline Team isn't outside my window this year. A couple of years ago they were located right outside my livingroom. It was very disconcerting to see strangers jump up and peer into my upstairs apartment every few seconds.

The overwhelming smell of souvlaki will keep up all weekend, and Fanny will disappear. She seems to have gone already! And it's not that I dislike a carnival atmosphere. I love such things, really I do...but given the chance I'd rather be back in Mijas at the "feria"...picking at paella, sipping wine, and watching small, happy crowds coming and going on those steep mountain roads.

Where do my friends go when they disappear? Sometimes you get to find out.

The last time I saw Karen she was playing bass in a punk band. I heard over the weekend that she's currently a professor of Celtic studies at the University of Wales. She's written a few books, published by well regarded academic presses. By all accounts she's happy.

So my question was answered: when my friends disappear, they are likely to be found in Wales.

I took French language courses from grade seven to thirteen. I read "L'Etranger" in bed for the test next day.

I lost it all, the entire language, the exquisite food and the affairs. It's not so bad, really. I'm convinced it's never too late to start again.

"On n'est pas serieux, quand on a dix-sept ans."

Several years ago a very beautiful woman with a thick accent came into my bookshop with a bag of Russian literature to sell (English translations, of course). All the books were inscribed to her in pen and signed by the same guy.

A messy break-up, I guess, and time to unload the luggage. I bought all the books and put them in the window: my first Russian display. I kept an old paperback of Pasternak's wintry poems for myself. Judging by the tender and detailed inscription, he gave it to her in a restaurant a day or two after they met.