By James Bow

The image to the right is by Denis Vermeirre, and is used in accordance with their Creative Commons License (Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0)

There's been an interesting development in the games we play with Ontario license plates.

As well as the old game of Bumper Stumpers (remember that?), one game I play (and I know my friend Andrew plays), is trying to log the "highest" Ontario license plate possible. Standard Ontario license plates follow the pattern of four letters, followed by three numbers, with license letters and numbers raised incrementally. I remember when (roughly 1997) there was a mild kerfuffle over the fact that our old license plate system, which used three letters followed by three letters, was running out of 'numbers", as we were nearing ZZZ 999, so what were we going to do then?

The answer, of course, was to flip over to AAAA 000. And, since then, the highest license plate I've seen is in the DA region. According to Wikipedia, as of December 8, 2025, the highest license plate number is DJVP-046. Given that this pattern allows for 456,976,000 variants, it should be about a century or so before we have to update this system with five letters.

(Actually the total number of variations is significantly smaller than nearly 457 million. The letters G, I, O, Q, and U aren't used because they're too similar to each other and to other numbers, and this brings the number of variants down to 21 to the power of four, multiplied by a thousand, or 194,481,000. Legislation also prevents the use of certain letter combinations because they spell bad words or are reserved for government officials. Or both.)

A wrinkle in this game comes in the form of green license plates for electric and plug-in hybrid vehicles. When these license plates were introduced, back in 2010, they had green lettering instead of blue, and gave you additional perks, such as the ability to use high occupancy vehicle lanes without the requisite number of passengers. All of the green license plates followed the four letter and three number pattern of regular Ontario license plates, with the exception that they all started with GV ("Green Vehicle" -- although FrancoOntarian drivers had the option of picking up VE license plates for "Véhecule Écologique").

Because the total number of possible GV licenses is significantly smaller than the total number of regular license numbers (441,000), I couldn't help but notice that we were running up the alphabet quite quickly, and I wondered what would happen when we tipped over the edge. A few days ago, I got my answer. I found myself driving behind another electric vehicle with a green license plate, but there was something strange about it. Then I realized: the license plate was in the GWAB 000 format.

I pointed this out to younger child, who shrugged, but laughed when I said, "I guess the guy is driving a Green Whe-hecle." She came up with one better, saying, "It stands for Green Wheels".

But now, in my head, I hear Chekov's voice, referring to the car with the license plate as a "Green Wessel".

It's been a bit chaotic here at home, which has kept me away from this blog, but I do want to thank Miss Liz for a fantastic podcast "teatime" back on April 23rd at 7 p.m. wherein we talked about The Night Girl, my development as a writer, the perks and challenges of storywriting, and about the benefits of fan fiction in building yourself as a writer. You can check out the stream on YouTube here, and the episode is also available on Spotify. Thanks again, Miss Liz, for a wonderful teatime!

After a particularly lengthy and harsh winter, spring has finally sprung. Good news: we now have green after what seems like forever. Bad news: this means it's allergy season. Oh, well.

I have to admit that I feel like I've been struggling creatively at the moment. Intellectually, I would like to work on finishing my latest draft of The Cloud Riders, but practice has not matched the theory. My creativity has instead focused a lot on my Transit Toronto videos (see one of my favourites here). This is frustrating to me, as I'd hoped to have a draft of The Cloud Riders done by July of last year, and I'm still only about two-thirds done.

But I can't deny that my video work on Transit Toronto hasn't been a creative outlet. It's just a different medium and a different subject. I've produced things ranging from vintage footage of streetcars on Kingston Road in east Toronto in 1969, to a ride-along featuring a lengthy commentary on the history of commuter rail in Montreal. For the past six months, I've been helping my team shift our YouTube operations onto a new channel that's more stable and prepped for succession, and I've been downloading, updating and uploading hundreds of older videos onto the new channel, in the hopes of getting the new one monetized as quickly as possible.

This has taken up a lot of my creative energy but also provided a lot of creative satisfaction. Except it's happening at the expense of my writing, and I'm starting to feel the withdrawal.

The Bible quote goes "No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despite the other." (Matthew 6:24). But there aren't just two masters here. There's three; possibly more.

I write because I love to write. In this economy, this has to be the primary reason most writers write. I am very fortunate to be able to write for my dayjob, but that's separate from what I like to write. I can write press releases, business proposals, technical reports, or educational books for kids, but my passion is in young adult writing, science fiction and fantasy. And in transit history and videos therein.

You see my problem: I have a day job. And I have a passion. And my passion is divided, which divides everything about my passions.

As a science fiction/fantasy/young adult writer, my passion brings me in contact with a community of people who are also passionate about science fiction/fantasy, young adult literature and writing. And as a rail and transit fan, my passion here brings me in contact with a community of people who are also passionate about rail and transit and who create content based on that. There is rarely any crossover between the two communities (though I know of one or two individuals who cross the boundaries with me).

I'm forced to wonder whether having my passions divided makes me less able to commit to each one individually. I have two passionate communities to engage with, but possibly not as deeply as if I only had one. Right now, I've been pumping out a lot of transit-related content and contributing a lot to the Transit Toronto YouTube channel, but will that last? Or will I end up stepping back and letting others take up the slack and, if so, am I letting those people down?

On the other hand, I have said that having two book projects on the go is a good way to avoid writers' block. If you encounter frustrations with one project, you can move onto the other in order to maintain momentum, while you work on your first project's issues at the back of your mind. The best chefs are able to use their back burners to great effect, though I think this might end up being stressful if one project was under a deadline, and the second project was calling to you.

I don't see an easy solution other than to keep pursuing my passions in whatever direction they take me, and to try to nudge progress forward on The Cloud Riders as best I can, in the hopes that something snags my interest again. And, maybe by saying this out loud, I'll reach others who are experiencing similar issues. This is not an issue to fix, but it is an issue that is easier to handle when you know you're not alone, as I suspect I'm not.

This piece originally appeared in the web magazine Relatable Media back in September 2025.

Writers have a close relationship with the tools they use to write. Ernest Hemingway had his pens. Stephen King wrote his first Dark Tower novel on an Underwood typewriter. Science fiction icon Robert J. Sawyer still composes his books on the WordStar word processing software program, which was last updated in December 1992. He's even taken steps to preserve as much of the software as possible, posting the elements to his website as the "Complete WordStar 7.0 Archive".

Modern computer keyboards don't get talked about as much, likely because they are ubiquitous. However, any writer who composes most of their work on a computer uses their keyboard almost daily. It's a critical part of their creative process. To improve my writing experience, I explored the world of better keyboards... and went down a rabbit hole.

Like most writers, I'm not rich. When I switched from putting pen to paper to typing words on a screen, I did so on the least expensive computer I could find. When I earned enough to upgrade that experience, it was to purchase a laptop (Apple, of course), and the thrill of composing and creating anywhere in my apartment or the world outweighed any deficiencies my keyboard may have had. When I was working my day job, my keyboard was what my company provided for me: cheap if not necessarily cheerful. I didn't care about the look or feel of the thing, as long as it got the job done.

Then the pandemic hit, and the need to work from home. At the time, the company I worked for provided me with a work laptop and allowed me to sign in to work using my home computer. That home computer was an Apple Mac Studio with an Apple Magic Keyboard. My work laptop was a simple Dell. Both used flat, chicklet-style keys with thin scissor switches to register keystrokes. My fingers barely travelled a couple of millimetres before my typing appeared on screen.

As I switched between my Apple home computer and my Dell work computer, I noticed a difference between the keyboards. Apple computers were fancy and stylish, and their Magic Keyboard featured a fingerprint sensor that made me think I was living in a James Bond movie. However, the chicklet keys were so thin that typing on them was like drumming my fingers against my desk. Dell's cheaper laptop had keys that felt softer to type on. In that moment, I decided I needed to improve my home computer experience.

That's how the rabbit hole starts.

Like many things in computing, keyboards are a perpetual compromise. If you want your keyboard to be thin, light and small, you sacrifice key travel and feel. If you want your keyboard to feel like typing on a typewriter, but better, you need a larger keyboard, oftentimes investing in a palm rest to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome. Expect to pay through the nose if you want the premium feel in a small form factor. High-end keyboards can cost $300 or more, a shock-inducing sticker price for anybody used to seeing flimsy keyboards on sale for less than $50 at Staples.

My first step up the keyboard ladder was Logitech's MX Keys S series keyboard. This flat, laptop-style keyboard uses nicely shaped chicklet keys and thin scissor switches, and typically sells for around $170 CDN, although you can get decent used versions on Kijiji and Facebook Marketplace for around $100. The MX Keys series offers enough audio and tactile feedback to let you know you've pressed the key without feeling like you're drumming on the table. The keyboard is also quiet, which can be vital if you work from home early in the morning and don't want to disturb your family.

As good as Logitech's MX Keys series keyboards were, I wondered if further improvements could be made, so I explored the world of mechanical keyboards. These trace their lineage back to the early days of computing, and even to electric typewriters. The history of mechanical keyboard evolution and the nuances of how they work are too long to summarize in this article, so I'll try to keep it brief. These keyboards are thicker and have keys that travel farther when pressed. They also make more noise, providing users with the audio feedback they find essential when typing.

A mechanical keyboard uses a mechanical switch beneath each key to register a key press. Pressing it down completes an electrical circuit, signalling to the computer that the key has been pressed. Technically, chicklet-shaped laptop keyboards also do this, but their switches are more complex. Mechanical keyboards are often (though not always) easy to customize, allowing you to swap key caps and switches for a personalized experience.

There are many different types of mechanical keyboard switches, but three are the most common. There's the clicky switch, where the switch emits a click as it's pressed, providing audio feedback that some find satisfying (while others, particularly co-workers, may find infuriating). There's the tactile switch, where a subtle bump provides resistance at the start of the key press, reducing inadvertent key presses. Finally, linear switches have no clicky or tactile feedback; you press them down, and the computer registers the keystroke. You get the sound and tactile response when the key hits the bottom of the keystroke or returns to its starting position (tactile switches also provide this audio feedback).

Silent switches exist to deaden even the sound of linear switches, which some typists (and people living with typists) appreciate. Still others dislike the lack of audio and tactile feedback that helps them connect with their writing.

Key switch preferences are as individual as the typist, and exploring this world can be frustrating. There are no dedicated keyboard chain stores anywhere in North America. Staples sells inexpensive office productivity equipment, and Best Buy and Canada Computers' inventories focus on gaming. Even online, gaming keyboards get more attention than productivity keyboards on social media -- likely because gamers are more willing to spend money on improving their gaming experience. But this doesn't mean writers and creative types should be left out in the cold.

So, I explored what I could find on YouTube and took the leap and ordered specific keyboards to test. I upgraded my chicklet-based Logitech MX Keys S to a Logitech Mechanical keyboard with tactile keys. I liked it, but there were still too many compromises in build quality and typing feel. Finally, I ended up trying two keyboards from China: the LoFree Flow and the Nuphy Air V2, and encountered a dilemma.

The LoFree Flow is an almost-perfect keyboard in terms of looks and feel. It has an aluminum shell and well-made keycaps that fit well with the sleek and minimalist Apple aesthetic. Its linear switches make for excellent typing; they move like I'm typing on butter, but bottom out in a firm but not uncomfortable way. Better yet, the sound of these keys is deeper, without the high-pitched metallic "ping!" that cheaper keyboards can have.

NuPhy's Air V2 offers a similar experience and is less expensive than the LoFree Flow. It's also more customizable, allowing users to change particular keys more easily depending on their needs. NuPhy also makes better use of RGB lighting to indicate whether the Caps Lock is on, if the battery needs recharging, or if the keyboard is paired properly with the computer. The NuPhy's battery also lasts longer before needing to be charged.

The NuPhy is close to perfect, and the LoFree Flow has flaws, but the typing experience on the LoFree Flow trumped everything. Though it was one of the hardest decisions I had to make, I couldn't let go of the buttery smoothness and deep audio feedback the LoFree Flow gives me, so I sold off my Nuphy Air. At least somebody else can enjoy what NuPhy has to offer.

I may be silly waxing on about my keyboard, but if you are writing long novels, imagine typing over 100,000 words on a loud and flimsy $20 keyboard. If you're going to work eight hours at your home and office, don't you deserve to work on something that feels good and sounds good to type on?

I've explored the rabbit hole so you don't have to, but the exploration has been fun, so why should I deny you the same pleasure? A person's favourite keyboard is as personal as the typist, so don't be afraid to look around, see what feels good under your fingers, and invest in yourself and your writing.

Developments Since the Article was Written.

Following this article, Lofree set up a Kickstarter for their new Lofree Flow 2 keyboard. Despite reservations about some of its design (such as the big "chin" on the right of the keyboard, and a neat but generally useless touch bar to increase volume and keyboard brightness), I signed up. I was impressed enough with the keyboard itself that I made the switch, although I swapped in the Flow2 switches with more of the linear switches from the Flow1.

Nuphy also updated its Air line of keyboards from V2 to V3, starting first with a 75 key keyboard, before upgrading their 60-key and 100-key variants. The reviews have been excellent, with reviewers suggesting that the strengths of the version two keyboard were retained, with improvements added to make things even better. I haven't had a chance to try it, deciding to save $150 by sticking with the keyboard I had, which I was already satisfied with.

I did purchase a 65-key keyboard from Iqunix, the low-profile Magi65, which goes with my laptop when I take my writing to libraries, coffee shops, or on longer trips. The typing experience there is at least as good as my Lofree Flow2, with the keys giving a very satisfying feel and sound. Iqunix offers a 100-key variant of the Magi, but it's a premium purchase at $250, and I'm still happy enough with my current keyboard to stick with it instead.

Then there is the issue of keycaps, but that's another rabbit hole for another day. Look for that in a later post.

This is a review of the first season of Pluribus, but I'm going to do it by talking about lots of things that aren't Pluribus, including and especially Doctor Who.

Back in 2005, when the revival started, I liked it, a lot. But I didn't like it as much as the original series. I thought that Christopher Eccleston was an excellent Doctor, that Billie Piper matched him as his companion Rose, and that the scripts were effective, and the directions and effects were well done. But there was still something I missed about the original series that was preventing me from fully committing to the new one.

What is it, a friend asked. What is it about the old Doctor Who that you're missing in the new one? The new one's great!

It is, I agreed. But it lacks the gothic feel of the original series, and I miss that.

That was my assessment on the revival's pilot episode Rose, and also for the second episode, The End of the World. When I said the same thing about The Unquiet Dead, which featured gaslight ghosts and Charles Dickens in late 19th century London, my friend said (paraphrased) Great Googalamoogaly, James! We went to the frickin' Victoria Era! How much more gothic do you want?!!?

I did say it was paraphrased.

But that was the point I realized we were talking past each other. Yes, the word "gothic" describes an architecture. It describes an aesthetic. Gothic horror and Victorian settings often (but not always) go hand in hand, and the original Doctor Who series married the two quite often. But gothic describes more than just arched doorways, darkened passages and stained glass windows.

Gothic horror, in my opinion, works on the premise that those things which are unseen are scarier than those things which are seen -- a lovely premise for filmmakers on a budget. Consider the classic 1963 movie The Haunting, where terror is imbued from the beginning through eerie camera angles, optical illusions of faces in the wainscotting, and somebody banging a cane against a wall somewhere. I always thought it was a telling irony that Hollywood completely forgot that sentiment when they remade The Haunting as an effects-heavy, hide-nothing horror in 1999, the same year that The Blair Witch Project recaptured the original movie's sensibilities, got called a visionary, and launched a genre of found-footage copycats.

Gothic horror lets you know, from the beginning, that Something Is Wrong. Then it holds its tension as it takes its sweet time telling the story, before the final, slow release. Doctor Who's best gothic episodes worked on this principle. The thing is, though: it doesn't just apply to horror.

Consider Doctor Who's The Time Meddler, which I would call an example of gothic comedy. Early on, it establishes that Something is Weird when the TARDIS lands at the base of some cliffs in 1066 England, and is seen by a mysterious monk from the clifftops, who doesn't look panicked or flabbergasted, only thoughtful. The story is mostly played for laughs as we slowly go through three 22-minute-long episodes until the reveal of the Monk's TARDIS.

Note that this was the first time that the viewers of the time (1966), had seen a TARDIS owned by anybody other than the Doctor, so consider the impact of this revelation to those viewers after three episodes of wondering, back then.

Establish the tension. Hold the tension for parts two and three. Release it in part four. Doctor Who played that card for a lot of its original run -- though, if I'm honest with myself, it was starting to shake up that approach by the time Colin Baker and then Sylvester McCoy took over the lead role.

So, that was my real issue with the first few episodes of the revived Doctor Who. Back in 1989, the program told a ninety-minute-long story broken out over four episodes. In 2005, it told that same story over a single forty-five-minute-long episode.

Then we got to Dalek, and I stopped complaining. I'd gotten used to the new pace of storytelling, and I just went with it. But I think this change of approach is one of the best examples of the genius of Russell T. Davies as he launched the series' revival. Could the new Doctor Who series have survived in 2005 if it told its stories at the same pace as the stories told back in 1989? I don't think so.

Davies understood that sixteen years had passed between the end of the original series and the launch of its revival, and a whole new generation had grown up. What had happened in the meantime? We had shows like Babylon 5, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The pace of storytelling picks up. The scripts get snappier. There's less time to breathe. During this period, we also have The West Wing, which was parodied for the way its characters held breathless, banter-y conversations while walking briskly through the corridors of power. Doctor Who had plenty of corridors before, but The West Wing walked them a lot faster.

In this day and age, you look around at the media, and everything is just so fast. Star Trek series used to have twenty-five episodes a season to build their characters and storylines; now we're lucky if they have ten. The Marvel movies are sped along, not just by action scenes, but the pace of the conversations the characters have. There's more repartee. There's more jokes.

And, consider this: as psychedelic as movies like 2001 or Phase Four were in the 1970s, would you be able to make the movie Everything, Everywhere, All at Once in 1975? Would the people of 1975 understand it?

I'm sure there are people who want to blame social media for this, but I'm not so sure. I think the micromovies of YouTube and the reels of Facebook are a symptom rather than a cause. Doctor Who was starting to pick up its pace in the late 1980s. The changes of storytelling in the 1990s were done before social media or even online video was a thing.

But the big question I have is, can gothic storytelling succeed in this day and age. Can audiences tolerate a story that establishes tension early, then holds it, and holds it, before that final release? Marvel's Wandavision is well regarded, except that people were complaining by episode two about how slow the story was. Nothing's happening, they exclaimed, until the big reveal at the end of episode three, and the astounding shift in the characterization at the end of episode four. For those who complained, think of how much more impact those cliffhangers had in episodes three and four, thanks to the drawn-out storytelling of episodes one and two. But will Marvel try something like this again? I'm less certain. Wandavision took a risk, and venerable franchises can be notoriously risk-averse.

Which is why Vince Gilligan's Pluribus is so amazing, in my opinion. The man takes gothic storytelling to an extreme. Once the tension is there, he holds on every moment. Is somebody coming to visit the main character? We don't start the scene with the knock on the door. We hold on the character sitting pensively in the kitchen. We follow the long walk up the front walkway. We get the knock on the door, and we get the slow walk to open the door. Conversations are passionate, but they're slow.

I've heard plenty of complaints from people who've called the pace of Pluribus glacial, but that's the point. If Vince is successful in lodging the tension of Something is Wrong in your heart, the drawing out and drawing out can make for stressful, sometimes frustrating, but ultimately successful television. The payoff and release, when it comes, is more valuable because it has taken that long to arrive.

Because of this, Vince Gilligan was able to deliver more power with the utterance of two words to end a season than other showrunners do with a big explosion. I'm so glad I got to see it, and I look forward to season two.

Man plays piano in Prague's Airport.
Photo by Arto Alanenpää
Part of the Czech project
"Pianos on the Street".

I feel I've discussed this before (and I have), but the attempts to build a false sense of deeper connections with our customer service representatives continues to get more irksome.

Earlier today, I was having breakfast with my eldest child at a local chain breakfast restaurant, and I heard our (very pleasant and otherwise very professional) waiter ask their diners as they delivered the cheque, "So, do you have anything interesting planned today?"

To be fair, I like it when our customer service agents are polite and positive. There's a manager/cashier at my local Tim Hortons who now rrecognizes me by sight. I have a standard order. Yes, this does mean I go through their drive-thru too often, but a rapport has built up between us. I pull up to the window after I make my order, and she hands me my double stacked Farmer's Wrap ("here you go, hon"), followed by my kids Timbits ("These are your Timbits") and my coffee ("extra large, three cream"). Then she says, "you have a nice day", I thank her and wish her the same, and I drive off, and that's the extent of that.

We've made a positive connection, and one that is relevant to my reason for going out there. We've understood each other in terms of the relationship of server and customer. We've given each other what we need, we've bid each other best wishes on the day ahead, and we've moved on. What more could you ask?

I'm not sure what motivates chains like Starbucks to encourage their servers to try and delve deeper into the customer/server relationship. How does knowing a person's private plans increase the likelihood of that person returning to face further interrogation? And how often has that question backfired? How often have they asked about somebody's interesting day, only to learn that their customer is heading to a funeral, and their question has led this person to tearfully unload everything about their grandfather's long fight with cancer, while traffic backs up in the drive-thru lane?

Listening to my waiter ask this question of every table they're serving tempts me to ask them what the strangest, most off-the-wall answer have they received to their inquiry? Or, better yet, to come up with the most outlandish answer of my own -- though it might need a prop or two:

WAITER: So! How was your breakfast?

ME: Excellent, thank you.

WAITER (rips off and hands over the receipt): "Do you have anything interesting planned today?"

ME: Yeah. We're disposing of a body.

WAITER: That's nice-- WHAT?!

ME (picks up ceremonial urn, plunks it on the table): Yeah. Uncle Fester. His dying wish was for us to have one last breakfast at his favourite restaurant before we take him down and dump his ashes in the Grand River, so he can float gently out to sea.

I realize one of the defining features of this age is a growing lack of personal connection, and the social strains that this causes, but attempting to force connections isn't the solution. I don't go through a drive-thru to unload about my problems, and I don't go to a breakfast restaurant with my eldest child to share my day's plans (or lack thereof) with a perfect stranger.

If I wanted to share my thoughts with strangers, I'd approach a bartender. I'd be sitting at a counter, alone. That's the stereotype, right? I'd be sitting in front of the Piano Man, Billy Joel, who'd ask me why I was still in the navy. But I'm not at a bar, I'm at a breakfast diner. I'm not behind a counter, I'm at a table with friends or family, or I'm in a coffee shop working hard on my computer. There are better times and places to try and forge connections, and these false and forced attempts aren't among them.

Indeed, I can't help but wonder if they're another symptom of our society's disconnect.

Kitchener GO Station, looking west on a bitterly cold December 8, 2025. Photo by me.

Winter set in early this season, with two big snows in November, and it looks like it intends to stay a while. We've had couple of beautiful, bright but bitterly cold days, but we've also had some hefty snow-squalls which ensured a White Christmas. That's fine. Now that we've had our white Christmas, I'm seriously looking forward to spring, though that seems a ways off.

What hasn't been welcome is the flu that has ripped through our family. The eldest child was the first to get it, and I felt it coming two weeks ago. Today, it lingers in Erin and the youngest child. We've been vaccinated, but this has been one of those years where the vaccination didn't quite match up with the flu strain that became dominant, clearly. Oh, well. Hopefully this virus is on its last legs with us. Fingers crossed.

This past month, I've had a few more podcast appearances to talk about my writing in general and The Night Girl in particular. To start with, I had the pleasure of sitting down (via Zoom) with Chris Clinard at Books4Guys, to talk about the themes of my work, including issues of identity, and the possibilities of my novel-in-progress, The Curator of Forgotten Things. I had a great time, and you can listen in on Apple Podcasts, Overcast, and Spotify, or directly from their website.

Another neat interview was on The Mind of Sai Marie, where we talked about my coming up from fan fiction as I embarked on my writer's journey. We got really deep into the themes of The Night Girl, and the questions were really challenging in the best way. Check it out here. Sai Marie also has a newsletter.

Then Aimee Ravichandran invited me on board Author Talk, with her co-hosts. As Americans in the middle of a cold wave, they spent a little time complaining before I noted that, as a Canadian, I had it worse, and I hated it too. We had a good time discussing urban fantasy for a good forty-five minutes. Check it out here on Spotify.

Finally, I apologize for letting mention of this podcast slip too late, but I had a great time talking to Kino Isaac, a South African podcaster, producer and creative entrepreneur, who was super engaging and got me talking about my love of Toronto, and even about watching Doctor Who on TV Ontario. Check out his podcast over on Spotify; he made 52 minutes go by super quick.

I would like to thank Ed Willett and his publicist Mickey Mikkelson for getting my name out there. I haven't had a chance to do this before with my previous books (excepting The Sun Runners and Tales from the Silence, which Ed also published and publicized), and I'm grateful for these fun opportunities.

This photo, entitled Tim Hortons Drive Thru, was taken by Ann Baekken, and is used in accordance with their Creative Commons license.

If there's a fair argument that sometimes Canadians are too patient, maybe it comes in the drive-thrus of Tim Horton's on Christmas morning.

This Christmas, I wanted to treat the kids to some Timbits. Now, you might think, "but, James: it's Christmas morning. Isn't everything closed?" But I know for a fact that some Tim Horton's stay open, even through the darkest Christmas night, so I head out. And the neighbourhood Tims (a small building that exists primarily as a drive-thru) seems busy. Cars are lining up down the street. So, I pull in behind them, with my music playing on my stereo, and I settle in towait.

There's something about a queue, and I don't think this is just a Canadian thing. We see a line-up of people or cars patiently waiting for something, and a part of our mind just thinks: I've got to get in on that action! So we join the line-up and wait. The spent cost fallacy comes in pretty quick. Sure, you might be able to get faster service if you go elsewhere, but then all the time you spent in the line here will have been wasted. What a tragedy! Just hang on for another minute. Things will move then and I'll get my prize, surely!

Ten minutes later...

Ten minutes later, I sense that something is wrong. We're not moving, at all. That this line isn't now miles long is largely due to people rage-quitting behind me. I was anticipating delays because, maybe, they staffed this small outlet with a single worker to handle orders, do cash, cook, pour coffee and clean (possibly in defiance of the Geneva Convention), but no. This is different.

It takes me pulling out of the line and driving past the front door of this Tim Horton's outlet to see that, indeed, this place is closed on Christmas day. Now, to be fair: this front door is out of sight of the cars lining up for the drive-thru. Further investigations later shows that other closed Tim Horton's have their holiday hours posted not only on their front door but also beside their drive-thru order stand. This one doesn't. Somebody has forgotten, and a very orderly chaos is reigning.

It actually takes some honking and yelling at the line-up to convince these people that this Tim Horton's they're lining up for is closed and they should be on their way. Those that leave seem grateful.

I then found the one Tim Horton's in the neighbourhood that was open, and it is packed. Cars are stretching down the street, just like the closed Tim Horton's I've left, but I can see workers working inside. Parking my car and getting out gets me into the pedestrian line, which still takes me twenty minutes to get my coffee and Timbits, but oh, well. It's Christmas. Everybody is mostly cheerful.

And as I pass the closed Tim Horton's in my neighbourhood, the cars are still lining up, for nothing.