In 2007 I lived with my boyfriend Brock in a two-bedroom, two-bathroom penthouse that we rented for a whole lot of money in Victoria’s James Bay neighbourhood. We both worked for the provincial government. While extremely happy (after all, we’d found each other), life had become a routine of working long hours (Brock), guzzling homebrewed Sauvignon Blanc (Heather) and putting off having babies. We didn’t even have cable TV to distract us.
Byron: “Maybe you should just buy a bigger TV.”
We both have fond, vague memories of a simpler, rural life — Brock on his parents’ organic strawberry farm, me riding my tricycle on the backroads of Merville. It kind of made sense to embrace massive mortgage debt, an inconvenient commute over the Malahat in dark winter rain storms, and the infinite possibility of 10 acres of undeveloped farmland.
Also, I was getting fat.
Thus: a farm.
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