Pearson Sunday afternoon

Gate F83, Pearson International Airport, waiting to board for Sarasota along with lots of other lucky Canadians. Outside, sleet grey, not too cold but grim, with piles of dirty snow. I have a mini-office on the go - computer on my knees, iPhone on the little table beside me, bottled water, pot of yogurt, almonds and a cheese bun, the ubiquitous snack. A cold just beginning in my nose, which I hope to jam in its tracks with a bit of sunshine. Though apparently it's raining down there, right now.

I want to sit and stare at water and do nothing for a bit. It is my mother's condo; she is everywhere, in the giant Mark Rothko print that climbs high up the wall - the only Rothko I know that's not murky reds and blacks and browns, but vibrant yellow and bright sea blue. In the English teapots and colourful beach towels and tasteful furniture - and also in the twelve boxes of classical records that have been stored under the stairs since my Uncle Edgar's death in 1997. Not willing to let them go, but having no place for them at home, she imported them to Florida and there they stay.

The answer, surely - a record player.

On my way here, in the endless circuit of the airport, the TD bank was giving out free water and snacks, and had a beach chair set up with newspapers. So I sat in the beach chair and read the Sunday New York Times. Now that's travel.