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This was the scene of revelry last night...  Clearly, we're having a wild party. For evidence, note the Hawaiian shirts. Note the margaritas. Note the bowl of spicy chicken wings. Note the cat having a hot time. Most of all note the thermometer in my hand, because the reason for our wild par-tay was to celebrate the temperature in this apartment finally hitting 21C (approximately 70F, for my Yankee readers). It's been months since that little wooden shoe thermometer poked its pointer over 20C. Radiators full-blast, oven on and open...no matter. For months the butter on the counter was as hard as the butter in the fridge. I actually warmed my hands over a candle, Bob Cratchit style, in order to type. I considered renting out closet space to a local butcher, it was that cold. Even over the past month, as things warmed up outside, the indoor temperature hovered at a bracing 14C (57F). This is significant because there's a municipal law in Toronto that requires landlords to heat their properties to at least 21C. Joe renter can turn off the radiator or open a window and cool the apartment down as much as he likes...but 21C has to be possible. Not so here in the Nunavut of apartments...until yesterday. And so we partied, in a luau meets fiesta extravaganza. The wings were hot, the margaritas were cold and the shirts were loud...louder than the music, at least. If we'd had tiki torches and a pig on a spit, the fire department would certainly have gotten involved. |
