When I arrived at the bus shelter today, there was a grown man sitting inside with his wool cap and winter jacket and jogging pants on, smoking a Number 7. There were four or five people standing outside, froze. I went into the shelter, gestured towards the no smoking sign and said, "I don't think you're supposed to smoke in here".

He laughed. No one ever said anything. Not bothering anyone.

"Well, I'm saying something, and you're bothering me."

He rose with a little huff and went and stood just outside the door. Mission accomplished. Two women and an elderly gentleman tucked themselves inside. One of the women commented that she was glad somebody said something, because non-smokers shouldn't have to suffer in the cold because of smokers.

How terrible to be smoking in the bus shelter.

"Well, he's gone outside now." There is no longer a problem, missus. All I had to do was ask.

I raised my eyebrow at her and explained that I used to be a smoker. She confessed the same. I raised my eyebrow some more.

Outside, the man with the cigarette gave a light to another smoker before taking one last quick draw and sitting back down inside on the bench.

I tries to quit, he said. Three months one time.

"Can't be three months! Got to be forever! You'll do it when you really want to. I was addicted! Couldn't have one, I'd want a carton". All in one breath. The only way I know how to give advice.

I know, he said. That's right. Smiling and nodding.

"Don't give up!" The route 3 pulled up and I hopped on. I hope he really thinks I'm right.

Sorry, couple dozen guests whose envelopes I sealed and stamped before I changed my mind about the rsvp cards. You don't get the space-agey design, but you'll get your invitations first. Patience is not my strong suit.

Randomly, and as inspired by Andrew J. Hiscock's recent flurry of blog awesomeness:

Following a forced hiatus due to a move to the sub-suburbs, I’ve recently found myself once again blessed with the joys of walking through the downtown area. I walk the same route daily, from the Delta to Forest Road and encounter dozens of people, including fellow walkers, commuters dashing from the office doorway to their vehicle, shoppers, shop owners, tourists, parking enforcement officers, and so on. I don’t mind the black ice. I don’t mind the wind. I don’t mind the hat wearing lady in the Corolla who nearly ran me over yesterday near the Craft Council Shop (mostly because I was stupidly wearing gray at dusk and she was close to 100 years old). What I do mind, though, is the fact that nobody, not nobody says “hello”, “hi”, or even “kiss m'arse” (okay, maybe “kiss m'arse”, but you know what I mean) to passersby anymore, let alone the classic “whaddayat” so popularly embraced fter the Jake D'yle/Strombo interview earlier this week.

Now, I’ve done my share of complaining about customer service here in NL, and I’ve tried to encourage more talk about good customer service, via twitter and occasionally via my blog. But this is way more alarming than the obvious breakdown between the service industry and the public. What does this say about a place that supposedly prides itself on its warmth, its character, and the decency of its people? I know everyone’s busy, everyone has other stuff on their mind and all that, but seriously, would it kill you to acknowledge, just for a split second, the fact that another human being is occupying the same 3-foot-wide space as you? A simple smile or even a chin toss would do. Especially if that other human being already spoken to you. Please don’t leave ‘em hanging! I challenge anyone who is reading this to take a leap: meet eyes with the next person you pass on the street, instead of casting yours downward. Just see how it feels. We’re all in this together, you know.

‘Til I see you on the street,

Janet