Chris is from Peterborough. Not the smalltown in Cambridgeshire, famed restingplace of Henry VII's first woman, Kat of Aragon.Its the other Peterborough I'm talking about: the gateway to the cottage country on Ontario's Otonabee River, home of the Peterborough Petes and Trent University.
Chris is my next door neighbour and, coincidentally, is Canadian born. He has lived in England for nearly 40 years, retiring a few years back from Notts Trent Uni where he taught fine arts.
I maxed my vertical the other day, jumping when he startled me out of my mid morning daze as I made my way out the door for school. Maybe it was the Canadian accent that threw me off my course. Perhaps it was his kindness.
I didn't expect such welcoming neighbours in Forest Fields.
This morning he buzzed again, hoping we wouldn't mind if he picked off our apple trees.
"It's thanksgiving weekend," I said. "Help yourself but save some for my apple pie."
I hoped to share a slice with him but the pie was a bit of a flop.
At home, Loretta usually doesn't mind samples of my culinary experiments.
But then I don't want to drive this guy back to Peterborough.
