The mobility scooter slowly drifts around the corner and up the slight hill of the moderately busy Bloor West Village street. For the most part, the driver keeps it in the center of the road yet it weaves slightly under the strain of its load.
The driver herself, a wisp of an elderly woman in mint green, can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds but the gravity of her expression could crush diamonds into dust.
Equally severe is her passenger straddled on the back of the struggling vehicle; A woman in her forties wearing tight blue jeans, sunglasses, crudely bleached hair and a black leather vest.
Being born to be wild runs in the family.