Timothy Taylor

Friday morning.  I rise at the unconscionable hour of nine a.m. for a return engagement at the Waterfront Theatre.  Running late as usual so decide to drive even though it’s just a ten minute walk to the island.  I think, oh yeah, bound to be pretty quiet down there this time of day, parking, which often is, won’t be a problem.  Maybe a few tumbleweeds of rain blowing down Cartwright Street but yeah, we got this whole thing under control.  Wrong.  The joint is crawling with traffic.  Now I’m thinking, a bit frantically, “What did you expect?  What did you expect?”  I circle round in a crush of cars and pedestrians and veer off to check out my secret parking place.  Luck is with me and it’s empty.  I snug in and get to the theatre.  Things are in fact running a bit late.  It’s not a sell-out, but close.

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I just came from holidays on Savary, so perfect timing. I reread The Grand Inquisitor, which is something I do more or less annually.

I also read Andrew Pyper’s new book The Guardians, which is not my typical choice as I have a very low tolerance for creepiness. But Andrew and I are pals, and we’re on a panel together at the Kingston Writers Festival about thrillers, so I wanted to see how he put one together. I enjoyed it, very much. He’s a fine writer.

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