I actually went through a period in my life when I was addicted to Harlequin Romances. It was after I was widowed and I missed loving, being loved, aka sex. I found an HR book somewhere, read it and cried. I missed being held and the goopy little romance reminded me of what I was missing. I read more such books. i called them safe sex. I got over them soon but for a few months I was reading about five a week. Silly me.

I'd forgotten about them until the other afternoon when I was checking out my mini-tablet (no WiFi on the bus) and found some free downloads of Harlequin Romances - no idea where they came from - but I thought, how bad can they be? I used to read them, after all.

In a matter of minutes, I switched off Minnie - aargh! - what a terrible book! The grammar was appalling; the choice of words was ridiculous and often inaccurate; the emotions were unbelievable; and the focus on the wrong kind of details totally insulting. Oh dear.

At one time, when I was flailing around trying to make a living, I thought I might try writing one of those soppy, happy stories, but found I could not. It's trickier than it looks. At times in my career I have been a writer-in-residence at various libraries where I had to read writing samples of wannabe writers. I could spot a fake attempt at an HR in the first few paragraphs, especially the ones by men. They simply were not authentic.

The late novelist, John Gardner, (1933-1982), who was a fine creative writing teacher and a great influence on Raymond Carver, for one, commented on this kind of kitschy writing. He said , "Not everyone is capable of writing junk fiction. It requires an authentic junk mind."

I just don't have it. Too bad, I guess. Harlequin writers make a lot of money.

Remember that fractured Latin translation: Gloria gets sick on the subway every Monday?

I thought of it yesterday when I came home from my lake retreat by bus. I don't get sick. I doze and think, and I'll tell you another discovery tomorrow. But for now, it's the trip. Without a car, I have been taking public transportation more and more, not only local. I really like trains and buses. The 401 was not very interesting yesterday but my fellow-travellers were fascinating, including the dog. Don't ask me the breed. I can't tell cars, either.

I wondered, when I saw it, whether its owner had to buy a ticket but later I saw the SERVICE DOG label, so then I started to worry about it. They didn't get off the bus at the terminal where I boarded, and they had come a long way then. Didn't the dog need to pee? What about water? It was very patient. It lay on the window side, shifting occasionally, to accommodate its owner's movements. She stroked its head once in a while but at one point she started twisting its tail quite forcefully, twirling it around and around. Why did she need it? She certainly wasn't blind. She was painfully thin and carried on a long, loud conversation with a teenage boy in the seat in front of her. Anorexic? Bipolar? I raised more questions than I could answer.

The couple in front of me was very young. I could see the boy's face as he looked at the girl, very loving. I could see only the back of her head when she ducked it down on his shoulder. They didn't talk much but they were in constant contact.

The bus driver was also young and thin and very efficient. I thanked him when I left and complimented his driving. His face lit up in surprise and he thanked me.

I notice now that everyone is younger than I am, much much younger.

I'm not telling you a thing, but it gave me something to ponder. That, plus scenery (yes, a little, on the 401) plus my own thoughts, back to pummel me, and a two-hour bus ride passed very quickly. It's like a time machine. You get off in a different space.