Unseasonably warm. Two words that don't even begin to describe what it was like today. I wore my trenchcoat with only a scarf wrapped loosely around my neck, and certainly no sweater or gloves. It was nice. And odd, especially for the Santa Claus Parade. I mean, traditionally, the parade ought to be rained on, or snowed on, or a little of both, temperatures should have been around 3C and the little whippersnappers were supposed to be in tears before it even started.

Not so today. Anyway, the parade made business a little slow today, because really, the only people downtown were the suburban families with parents in their mid to late 30s that haven't been down on Queen Street since little Junior and Jilly were born. Then they drag their four year olds into the store, who try to grab everything, and ask questions about the most hard-to-explain items (like floggers and posture collars) and then try on a lot of things, with the husband turning a shade of red he hasn't been since before the kidlets were born and the wife giggling like an idiot. Believe me when I say that this scene played itself out at least five times today and it never got less disturbing.

I took advantage of the beautiful temperature (once the crowds had dissipated) and walked along Queen to University and up to the rehabilitation centre where Julie is staying. She and Tania had just returned from a trip home and dinner and Julie was in wonderfully fine form. She was so excited to see me that she called out for the woman in the neighbouring bed to come meet me. And then the two of them fluttered about my outfit, which was apparently a hit. Not bad for a seven year old lace skirt, I suppose. Anyway, that was very cute. Julie was being proud of me. In return for that, I made her do tricks. She is now able to wiggle her left foot and leg - the one that had been paralysed by the stroke - and I got to flutter about it.

Julie is doing so well, it's just wonderful. It's especially wonderful because shortly after the stroke happened, we all feared that she would die. She can't really remember any of the iffy months in Sunnybrook, thankfully, because they were miserable, the hallucinations and ranting, the tears and the prayers. It was awful. God, did she hate it there. Happily, she loves the rehab centre and they treat her like a person. Moreover, the physiotherapists think she may well be able to walk again, though probably with an aid of some sort, and the way she's looking right now, I wouldn't doubt it. Next week she'll be doing an over-night stay at home, which should be wonderful. I hope it all goes well. Maybe she'll be able to spend Christmas Eve and Day at home, too. That would be a miracle.