When that epic finally drew to a close, I grabbed phone, camera, wallet, map and MP3-player, and headed off down University Avenue (past a raucous African-Canadian festival that had annexed Queen's Park), turned right at King Street West, and then finally left at Strachan Street until I reached the massive faux-Roman entry gate to Exhibition Place, which basically consisted of a set of building-shaped accusatory reminders that "we're looking after the environment, so why aren't you". Because I don't listen to scaremongers, maybe? Because much of the scientific community doesn't actually think the world's going to end a la the Book of Revelation if we don't all start wearing paper and eating grass? Quite possibly.

This wasn't the reason for it, but it was pretty much at this point that I became aware in quite how bad a mood I was, surprisingly given that everything I've worked towards this past year at Oxford has paid off. I began to run through the likely causes while I wandered aimlessly around the complex and past the BMO field, home of Toronto FC. A frequent cause in the past has been the effects of prolonged exposure to polluted city air - even as little as a day in London can make me surly and bemigrained - and given quite how unclean the air is in Toronto (for all the eco-cynicism) I wouldn't be surprised if this was the main reason. Given that it's not exactly something I could change, I began running through workable solutions, and placed myself (in a very philosophical-thought-experiment way) in the hypothetical location of Oxford. If I felt like this there, what would I do?

I came to the conclusion that the three things that would most completely improve my mood would be an extended wander round Addison's Walk and Oxford University Parks, a tall glass of ice-cold Kopparberg with a dash of lime juice, and a couple of hours of intensive improvisation on the piano. Great. All three pretty much impossible in Toronto purely through geographical location and limitations of facilities. Ah, I thought, but what if I attempt a compromise - I could find another park to go around (maybe the ones in NW Toronto), I could try and find a store that sells Swedish pear cider (unlikely given the strict drink restrictions here, and given that few Americans/Canadians will be aware of Sweden's existence), and I could spend some time in that music shop and subsequently on Sibelius on my computer! I was so pleased by my conclusion that I soon realised that my malaise had already gone purely by thinking of what I'd like to be getting up to. Crisis averted in that case. And now, to cement my good mood, I think I'll watch some Top Gear and complete what's left of the puzzles in the Saturday Star. :D

I was kinda drinking it anyway but their advertising made me giggle when I saw it on the street.

"In Kopparberg, Sweden, we don't do complicated"

How cool is that? The name never said anything to me* apart from the brand that Bulmers refused a deal with and 'copper mountain' so I was wondering 'what the fuck' but hey, sometimes a boring name to a boring city can make a lot of sense. Your entire damn strategy! If this is not your kind of humour it's just the absurdity of it all that should make you buy a bottle. Two blokes in a pub? You've got it. Insert guy with Scottish accent answering 'Why is it called Kopparberg?' and 'Why's this bottle green and that one brown?'. That's how I picture these ads in my head:

* jeg taller ikke svensk men jeg kan forstå det

The Diesel Wall, 'Big Ideas Need Big Spaces'

Budweiser, True Dedication

Rock Radio, First Classic Rock Station

Kopparberg, cidru de pere ce se găsea iniţial în IKEA, acum peste tot în magazine, cidrul având reputaţie de 'bautura ieftină cu care se îmbată pulifricii de 14 ani pe bănci în parcuri'. Singura diferenţă e că ăsta e scump. Headline zice 'In Kopparberg, Sweden, we don't do complicated.'

Sosi GTA IV în magazine şi se epuiză la fel de repede. Sâni cât cuprinde!