Some nights around this time, with the screen door letting breeze cool the kitchen, I hear the gargled echos of a live band. So many times, I simply wrote it off as some "in the park" type of summertime weeknight event for stroller-pushing parents or loafer-tapping old folks. Tonight, as the familar melody competed with the wind chime upstairs and the city busses passing, I hobbled out onto the landing to thumb around my pansies. I looked up across the parking lot behind the house, to the fire station on the corner and it dawned on me: they must have a band in there. And while I imagined moustached paramedics and firefighters jamming in the firehouse I wondered if the Irish podiatrist-cum-paramedic who rolled me into the ER was among them. I imagined him playing keyboards. Maybe drums.