Similar problems mar “6:19”, as a repressed white-collar commuter becomes unaccountably attracted to a woman he sees gardening through his subway window. Her arms, we’re told, “have an honest tan acquired through outdoor work, not planning”. Oh, brother. At least there’s no mention of the virtuous dirt under her fingernails, or the noble sweat on her heroically leathery brow.
My review of Miranda Hill’s Sleeping Funny, a story collection I could not stand, is in this week’s Georgia Straight.