877 words
Time of writing: Wednesday, October 5th, 2026

Yesterday was another prime example of why we here in southwestern Ontario love autumn. With every passing crisp breeze, the sun managed to warm everyone as they passed from one obligation to the next, as the midweek grind was lifted by the optimal weather conditions for our species.

A lot was accomplished on this day. From work, to taking care of family, to surprising a vendor of a show I covered earlier in the month with portraits of their employees, to spending time with a good friend, yesterday was the fullest of days in the best possible way.

“If you were able to do anything tonight, with a full security detail and chauffeur, what would you ideally do?”  I asked my friend after working across from each other for a number of hours.

“I would go shopping for some clothes for an upcoming show, and I would like to settle into a really nice place and have a good drink to close out the night,” she responded.

And with that, we were off to a local Uniqlo to just explore the possibilities of expanding her wardrobe and to potentially walk away with a few new pieces. Historically, I have taken a lot of friends, both men and women, shopping for clothes. Over the years, many friends have come to rely on me to remind them of just how beautiful they are, and that they can, in fact, wear a much larger array of clothes than they usually cap themselves at. Since I became a photographer a number of years ago, a growing number of women have come to rely on me for this, something which I am still trying to process.

Once we had accomplished our task and walked to the checkout area with a stunning blazer, and a beautiful pair of trousers, we were confronted with a modern cashout that left both of us unsure of how to proceed.

“Are those robots?” I asked in a humorous tone to an employee next to my friend and me.

Matching my tone, the employee smirked and turned to his coworker who was in charge of the modern checkout bins and said, “Yupp, those things are here to replace you!”

“Oh no!” replied the younger coworker with wide eyes and a giant smile. “Come on over and let me introduce you to who is going to replace me.”

The next few minutes were filled with laughter as we discussed how silly these bins were. You dropped the items into, the products were scanned, and then you were charged. But the employee still had to remove the security tags across the floor and return with your purchased items.

“What watch are you wearing?” I asked, noticing a vintage watch similar in profile to a Timex Marlin.

“This is a vintage Doxa that my girlfriend picked up in a flea market in Romania!”

“Now that’s a keeper,” I said.

“I know!” he replied looking down at his wrist.

“I meant your girlfriend, not the watch you silly man!” The laughter was contagious as everyone within earshot started to smile and giggle even though they had not heard the conversation.

“It is really beautiful,” I said as I looked at the dial and the characterful indices. Most vintage collectors would take years to find such a stunning example.

“I changed out the bracelet, which was…” He paused, gesturing with his hands as if he was playing an accordion made exclusively for house cats, “the elastically kind.”

“You have great taste! That brown leather strap is perfect.”

He smiled at my earnest compliment and continued.

“You know, I really want to become a watch person someday,” he said as his eyes gently shifted towards the retail floor, giving way in to his anxieties about finding a financial route one day to get to the place where he could buy the timepieces that he desired.

“You’ll get there in time,” I replied. “I worked the Timepiece show as a writer and photographer earlier this year, and there were plenty of people your age who were there with the same goal.” His smile widened, and he caught a glimpse of the watch I was wearing.

“Now that is my dream watch!”

His eyes locked onto my Omega Speedmaster, which I have owned for more than a decade. I bought it after receiving what would turn out to be a false and terminal diagnosis on a medical image on one winter’s evening, with the intention of it being passed down to either my nephew or one of my Godchildren. I usually hide the watch I am wearing under a cuff, and it slipped out as I reached for the bag filled with the two items we had just bought.

“You’ll get one soon!”

As we left, my friend could not help but smile, for she was still getting accustomed to such interactions, which seem to happen to me all the time, like on an hourly basis, but never to anyone else.

“They were so sweet! We should return and show him the picture that you took of his watch.”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “I’ll make him a print of the photo, and I have a plan!”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Even better!”