It's dusk - an earlier dusk because we've just changed our clocks back an hour.

I look out our second story window. My perch allows me to see directly into the houses across the street. I can see that someone is watching television. I can't make out what they are watching, but I can see a neon green "3" taking up one quarter of the screen.

My eye follows the eavestrough down the house to the street. The incline of the hill we live on means that everything is below us. Generally, it's great to have this advantage. If we need to know the cause of any noise or kerfuffle outside, this is the window to look out.

There's a green mini-van parked across the street. It has been there for a while. There's no parking permitted on that side of the street from four to six pm. It's 5:14.

The mini-van also draws my attention cause it's left turn signal is flashing. When I looked outside to take in the first November snowfall, I noticed the mini-van and it's turn signal. That was a couple of hours ago. I thought nothing of it.

It's causing some amount of confusion for other drivers. Cars pull up behind it, expecting that the mini-van will pull out into the stream of traffic. Each driver waits behind the mini-van for about 15 seconds before they realize that nothing is going to happen.

On further examination, I can see now that there's no one in the car. It's not on. The turn signal is a bit more erratic than it was earlier this afternoon. The left turn light indicator on the dash is flashing out of sequence with the tail light.

As I consider this situation, a white taxi pulls up behind the mini-van. A man in business dress gets out and opens the mini-van with his keys. He pops the back door and pulls out a black bag. He rummages around and produces a flashlight. He opens the driver's side door and looks around inside the car. The taxi driver gets out of his car. The businessman and the taxi driver determine a plan, which is presumably to jump-start the mini-van.

The taxi driver returns to his car and moves his taxi so that his hood faces the mini-van's. On our street, in rush hour, this is indeed a delicate manoeuver. After much consideration, the hoods are popped and the cables are attached. The businessman takes the flashlight back inside the car and attempts to start the mini-van. Sparks fly. The taxi driver motions frantically for the businessman to stop turning over the ignition.

There is some confusion as the two men examine the engine and its components with the flashlight. The jumper cables are removed. The taxi driver retrieves another set of jumper cables from his trunk and the procedure begins again. This time there are no sparks, but the mini-van does not start.

After further discussion, the businessman takes out his cell phone and a palm pilot. It seems ironic that the last resort requires such an output of technology. Presumably he finds a number and dials it. The taxi driver leaves.

Ten minutes later a tow truck arrives. The tow truck driver hoists the mini-van and takes the businessman as his passenger.

The television is still on in the house across the street, the neon green number three clearly displayed on the screen.

Catherine Thomson watches the world go by from her second story window in Toronto, Canada.