The walk up to Whyte Avenue was brisk, but my watchcap and woolies kept me in the plus. It was also two layers – one wool sweater, one fleece, a tumble down the gray sidetop to warm the nethers. The ride westward on the 106 was toasty, fan heaters blaring, passenger hands rubbing together, everyone together. The guy sharing the backseat is nodding off and the brunette over there is quietly sipping her morning black from a travel mug. I’ve seen her before and she looks like trouble, cutting eyes, serious flats.