Because I felt I needed a break from my usual non-fiction reading material and the indelible impressions of stress and irritation at how stupid we are in the way events unfold in the world, of our own irrepressibly harmful behaviour to one another and to the world we occupy in general, I decided to read a work of fiction. So what'd I choose? The Road, by Cormack McCarthy, as dystopian a novel as ever there was.

Just coincidentally, a few days back we decided to drive down to Byward Market in the city centre. Today it's cold and blustery out, the air still laden with the humidity that had given us a blanketing fog yesterday and rain. But the day before that it was warm, albeit humid, with sunny intervals. So off we went to the market for our usual shopping expedition there.

To visit the magazine shop that sells journals, newspapers and magazines covering every conceivable topic anyone could imagine, from all diverse sources imaginable. And there, poking about with our usual curiosity we left with the monthly magazine and bi-weekly newspaper we had taken the drive to acquire.

From that shop, a literal skip-and-a-hop to the cheese shop we usually frequent. And when that was done, over to Rideau Street to the Rideau Bakery to pick up Jewish breads and rolls that we crave for their wholesome goodness and unmatchable taste.

Both areas are always busy with foot traffic as well as traffic-busy roads. Part of the city that always looks tired, despite its attraction to tourists, particularly Byward Market. Because it was such a lovely day some people were seated at outdoor patios, enjoying coffee. And there was also a smattering of outdoor vendors with produce at outdoor stalls, although the majority of the spaces were empty at this season. Still, there were crowds of people ambling about, mostly in groups, chatting animatedly.

And as they passed a prone faded bundle of clothing lying on the sidewalk, skirting its outstretched leg, studiously avoiding looking directly at the objectionable heap within which was a comatose human being whose extended foot encased in a bright red running shoe that foot was rhythmically twitching. One person stopped, among the many, to peer briefly at the sleeping face to distinguish an older man. That person fished about for change in his pockets, stooped and deposited coins. I know that person.

When we drove over to the Rideau Bakery and parked, there was a clutch of young people milling about outside the corner pharmacy beside the bakery. One among them was pushing a cart of some kind. They were locomoting with strange, awkward mannerisms, bending toward one another, twitchily exchanging observations, as though dramatically waiting for something to happen. One of them, a young woman among the preponderance of young men, repeatedly entered and exited the pharmacy.

Old and young, individuals whom fate had steered them in a direction that negates the quality of life, becoming in fact, oblivious to life itself. A wealthy, first-world country, yet another one with a problem that all the brilliant minds in the medical and social services communities, along with politicians have been unable to come to grips with; certainly the people themselves infected with the pathology of dystopian lifestyles haven't been able to, themselves.

On the drive back home it was pleasurable to view the trees growing so handsomely along the Eastern Parkway. And the horses out to enjoy the weather in their bucolic setting where the RCMP keep their beautiful horses known for the equestrian entertainment quantified by the RCMP's 'musical ride' performance.

I'm still reading The Road, a terse account of a fallen world. And I keep thinking of the people I saw at the Market and on Rideau Street. And wondering whose failure it all is....