It was 7:00AM, too cold to be outside, and I sheltered inside a bank foyer waiting for the grocery store to open. Boy, do ATMs ever get a lot of action.
Some people live in apartments, and some of these apartments have McDonald's on the ground floor. I am kept company by a chain-smoking man across the way, who shouts to his friend Peter. Peter wanters over, a balding man wearing a winter jacket of faux black denim, nursing a gigantic iced cappucino, evidently obtained from where he just was - kiddie corner to us at the Tim Hortons. They speak at length, the former expounding on some aggravating tale about who wants to do what and who wants who to think who can do what or some such.
The name of this house is a pun? If it is, it's funny.