Toronto only smells good when the lilacs come up, and their scent follows us around like a sweet little sister. The purple lilacs are in abundance, and occasionally I see some white ones. The lilacs I really adore, look like cotton candy, and are a rare sighting, indeed. I know we’re not supposed to pick flowers from trees, but I wouldn’t be able to resist a little bunch of pinks.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the connections we see –– between a poppy, lets’ say, and the pleats of an Issey Miyake fabric –– and how satisfying that can be. The world feels smaller and more connected when the okra on your dinner plate reminds you of the Cypress trees you saw in Italy last spring. I think some people, creative types, make these kinds of connections all the time. And then channel them into their work. What comes out on the other side, is an amalgam of everything they see. It’s like a life size game of connect the dots.

Our street participated in a yard sale on the weekend, and much of the neighbourhood was out for it. We rustled together three tables of bric-a-brac in about twenty minutes; I dread to think how much more we could have piled on had we dug a little deeper. It’s strange to look upon things, once so loved and enjoyed, strew on the curb like junk. A wooden bowl in the shape of pineapple, a Rosenthal creamer, ramekins, toys, a bentwood chair and ten plates I spent my childhood eating off. We sold a gilded table that belonged to Jason’s grandmother to a neighbour who probably loved it as much as she did. He even bought the matching plant stand. That was a nice sale. My bodum teapot, that I’ve steeped tea in so many times, went to a local restaurateur, and a bag of my favourite wooden toys went to a new Mum and her 6-month old baby, Charlie. No one wanted my Mum’s Solimene plates, which on second thought, was a very lucky thing. One man’s trash really is another man’s treasure.

We’ve seen it a million times, in glossy magazines and on Pinterest, the inside of a woman’s handbag. There’s a Vuitton change purse, a Mason Pearson hairbrush and L’Occitane handcream. There’s an iPhone, lipstick (Mac Velvet Teddy) and two pairs of sunglasses (classic and courageous). Mine is nowhere near as glamorous, and I’d hazard yours isn’t either. What’s inside the handbags of women who schlep theirs around like it’s a second home? Inside my bag, a navy blue Fjallraven Kanken that used to belong to my son, is the following: $15 loose cash; one ultra fine panty liner; 5 TTC transfers and 3 taxi receipts; one pair of thick socks; a scrunched up rain bonnet; a leather roll up case of pottery tools; My daughter’s sunglasses; my other daughter’s colouring pages; a ticket to RBG; a business card from a wealth management firm; a grocery list; napkins; keys; three cornflakes. This from Vice is pretty cool. And so is this book from research sociologist, Jean-Claude Kaufmann. Take a look at both. And then inside your bag.

I was only four, but I do remember watching Diana stepping our of her carriage in that exquisite ile flottante of a dress. It was the summer of 1982 and we were staying with my grandparents in Bermuda. I too could wear a tiara, and marry a prince one day, is what I, and billions of little girls around the world thought. My mother had worn a beautifully beaded tiara when she married my father in 1974. I wore that fairytale tiara –– at home, at parties and on playdates ––  until every bead came unstrung. Diana married a prince, and so might I. When I was eight, I moved from my Surrey nursery to the Greek school in London. Prince Nicholas was a pupil there, and on days when I got to school early, he’d pass my classroom on his way to his and give my ballerina bun a squeeze. I took that as marriage proposal, of course. Years later, I did marry a prince, just not one with a title. I’m not sure that my girls even know that there’s a royal wedding on the weekend, and they certainly don’t care about marrying a prince. But we’ll tune in, for sure. Royal or not, Harry and Meghan are a couple in love, and that’s a thing worth celebrating.