There, he's done it again. On Saturday morning while I lay asleep in bed, he retrieved the newspapers we receive daily, only to discover one of them, the National Post, was missing. When he called their office to alert them and as usual, see that one is dropped by the house, he was advised through an electronic message that the office was closed, so off he went to obtain their rival national paper, the Globe & Mail.

He does this, knowing how vital it is to me to receive the news daily from several sources, even though I also have the Internet at my service. And this morning, because neither of the two dailies we subscribe to publish on Thanksgiving Monday he went off again to obtain copies of the Toronto Star and the Globe & Mail, which do publish today. He does this, knowing the pleasure I derive, reading the newspapers during breakfast, while he pores over art magazines himself.

I hugely appreciate his efforts on my behalf, but I protest because I would far prefer he remain in bed, not rush off willy-nilly thinking to please me. He does, but he doesn't. Just as I am profoundly displeased when he embarks on a task he considers routine and I consider to be potentially dangerous, as he did yesterday afternoon changing the oil in his Honda. He's pushing 78, time to tone down, give such things a break and have them done at a garage.

Today he's busy constructing a squirrel-feeding station with the winter in mind, and a squirrel-proof bird-feeding station as well. And I've decided since it's Thanksgiving, not to do the usual house-cleaning route today. So I've made a coleslaw salad, there's a pumpkin pie baking in the oven, because it's one of his favourite desserts, and I'm planning to roast a duck this year instead of the usual turkey. The duck has been sitting in the freezer awaiting this opportunity to use it, since I bought it a few months back, at a sale price.

I'll go back out to the garden again, as I did yesterday and a few days earlier last week, to continue preparing the gardens for winter, cutting back perennials, deconstructing the micro-landscapes represented by all our garden urns and clay pots and saving whatever I can to overwinter in the basement. I've yet, when all that is finally done with, to plant the spring-blooming bulbs, the tulips, anemones, scilla, alliums and fritillarias I had bought earlier last month.