Tuesday, 3 June 2008


Cabbagetown is a suburb to the east of the crappy area I'm staying in. It is all leafy avenues and rambling gardens. Mayors live there, Governors General live there, Avril Lavigne lives there when she's not skulking around the border of emo and girl power. Two cows live there. They come from Ireland.
Toronto is an exquisite corpse, a wondrous mishmash of Smurfiness and Fragglery. It is for this reason that there is a domestic farm in the middle of some of the most expensive real estate in Canada.
The 'Farm' seems as though it were created by two planners: one goodly and civic-minded, the other bent on evil mischief:
Good Planner: Let's put a farm there.
Evil Planner: But let it never produce anything.
GP: It will be like a petting zoo.
EP: With big signs saying 'Do not touch or feed the animals.'
There will be ordinary farmyard animals.
From really weird parts of the world.
A donkey.
From Abyssinia.
Some horses.
From Belgium.
A lot of chickens.
From Rhode Island.
There will be gentle walking paths.
But most will lead to mystifying dead ends.
I'm thinking about a lake.
Choked up with pond weed.
With birds--
A booby.
--and other animals--
two well-hidden turtles.
--and a bird aviary.
To store empty feed barrels.
There will be an official Residence.
Which no-one will live in or visit.
There will be a Meeting Hall.
Which we will close all Spring, Summer, and Autumn.
It will be a mecca for young children.
With signs warning that running and yelling make baby animals cry.
It will be an asset to Toronto.
With no income whatsoever.
It will be a place of good cheer.
Right beside the crematorium.

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