St. Alphonzo's Pancake Breakfast

Navigating the precipitous downward stairs to Lynn's apartment is akin to an only moderately controlled descent down the north face of Everest wearing a breezy lilac themed skirt and snappy slingbacks with a round toe and charming ankle buckle whilst carrying a fourteen pound purse.

Those crazy Kiwi climbers got nothing on me, I think.

Granted those stairs are set in a lovely and lush garden and lead down to the apartment that Lynne is renting from one of our other congregants – Mary – who owns the charming house under which the apartment is snuggled; and granted that the day is warm and only moderately overcast with a thin, greyish drizzle of rain, and granted that the concrete stairs are straight, clean and well maintained, the risers plumb and unbroken; that narrow and treacherous descent invariably fills me with the thrill of danger each time I come to visit.

Helping Lynn move into her apartment was an exercise in terror that left me feeling more alive and invigorated than I had ever felt before. I mean, we moved her in winter! We could have all been killed.

Grabbing the railing with one hand, I tiptoe downwards, and the sound of laughter slips up the staircase to greet me. Making it down the last few risers without tripping and fracturing my skull on the opposing concrete wall, or otherwise mangling myself or ruining a delightful spring outfit with blood, I push open the door and the smell of maple syrup and delicately frying sausages embraces me and pulls me deeper into the apartment. Casting off my slingbacks in favours of cooling my toes on the stone tiled floor, I peek around the corner of the entrance hall and into the kitchen. Lulu catches sight of me peeping at them and waves a cheery hello. I slip past her, wrap Lynne in a quick hug, my mouth watering shamelessly at the delicious smells colonizing the apartment and meander into the living room where Joan and Dave are chatting with Corey. The conversation, unsurprisingly, revolves around vacuum cleaners.

I settle into the couch beside Corey and commiserate with him as he bemoans the fact that the church’s vacuum cleaner is kaput.

“The power head is broken. There’s a crack where the rotor meets the intake port.”

Oddly enough, I am fascinated.

“They need a better turbo charged suction head. Right now all we have is the power head, and the differential ambient pressure isn’t enough to really get the carpet clean.”

I have no idea what he is talking about, but I know an expert when I see one. I think of the broken down Electrolux in my mother’s garage.

“What about an Oreck?” I ask, thinking of belated mother’s day gifts.

“Orecks are good vacuums,” he posits. “But if you really want a good vacuum, you need a Kenmore.” He nods his head sagely, like a guru enlightening his disciples.

“I have a power suction nozzle for a Kenmore, and now all I have to do is find the right vacuum to go with it.”

I tell him about the corpse of the Electrolux in the garage. He is instantly intrigued.

“Upright or canister?”

“Canister.” I tell him.

“1400 watt?”

“Ummm…I guess.”

“Hepa 12?”

“Sure.”

“3.5 litres?”

“Yup.”

Corey settles back contentedly, his back curved into the couch, a look of utter contentment on his face.

“That’s a good vacuum you have there.”