A book came my way a while ago: "The Poems of Rowen Williams." Does the name ring a bell? No? Well, this likable Welshman happens to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, not a bad day-job if you're a poet. His writing is no Sunday pastime -- he's the real thing -- and in terms of style he's very much a modernist. I can easily imagine hanging out with the guy, chewing the fat over a couple of pints, this good man with his big Santa Claus beard, and whose theology, as far as I can determine, welcomes the most harassed and unlikely pilgrims.

Uh-oh. A field mouse -- through no fault of its own! -- has found itself in my apartment. This development has not gone unnoticed by Alfie, she of the big fat feet, twenty-two claws in all. I may very well be a spectator to this Gothic encounter, and not in the wild where it counts for nothing, but here in this small enclosed space in the city where Mother Nature, our pretty Dominatrix, sheds her faery colours and reveals herself to be profoundly unmoved.

I've been sitting around like the village idiot reading a book called "Classical Music: an Informal Guide." At this very moment I'm listening to "Handel's Largos." I quite like the music but I prefer to think of it as "Handel's Lego" so I don't feel so intimidated. I like to think of Handel as a boy crouched on the floor, building something up with blocks, little holes and pegs.

It may or may not be a result of the heat but the city is infested with wasps this summer. There's no point in sitting on a patio with a drink or a meal, you will be dive-bombed relentlessly. And a bit of advice: avoid the tuna salad, avoid the tuna sandwich. For some unfathomable reason, wasps are crazy about tuna. Stay home. Live on whatever is left in your crisper. Do not venture outside.

I ran down two flights of stairs to film this epic

Garlic sea scallops, rosemary lamb pie. The three-day "Taste of the Danforth" festival began less than an hour ago. I can see the ferris wheel from my bathroom window.

Summer insomnia, 4:41 a.m. Across the street a man in a white tux (very Bogie) is dancing a slow dance on the sidewalk with a woman in a little black dress. The only music is the sound of the taxis going by, and an all-night bus full of faces.