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'Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might...
...never ever tidy.'
I had a package of face masks that lived in a drawer in my front bedroom. Four years ago I needed them for something and brought them down to the kitchen. And they stayed in a kitchen table pile until, in an evil hour some months ago, I cleared off the kitchen table. Where have they gone to now I need them? Who knows. Not into a basket, not into the mudroom (where I thought I had some mismatched cloth gloves as well, but no, those I threw out), not into a kitchen drawer. Did at least find a pair of nitrile gloves there, which will do for shopping in future.
I could sew some approximation of a face mask if I had a threader, but threaders are fragile beasties and mine are all bent. The only place with sewing supplies was the dollar store that closed some two years ago. So much for that.
Still virtuously indoors, I polished off Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills, last read a good thirty years ago or more. I've at least grown a little more savvy in the interim, because the twistiness of the story didn't register with me at all then, nor for that matter the forboding atmosphere which is Ishiguro's particular specialty. His flat affectless narrators always suggest horrors to come, just by the tapwater quality of their voices, and even when they don't come, the fantods remain. It's a neat trick and I wish I knew how he did it.
I had a package of face masks that lived in a drawer in my front bedroom. Four years ago I needed them for something and brought them down to the kitchen. And they stayed in a kitchen table pile until, in an evil hour some months ago, I cleared off the kitchen table. Where have they gone to now I need them? Who knows. Not into a basket, not into the mudroom (where I thought I had some mismatched cloth gloves as well, but no, those I threw out), not into a kitchen drawer. Did at least find a pair of nitrile gloves there, which will do for shopping in future.
I could sew some approximation of a face mask if I had a threader, but threaders are fragile beasties and mine are all bent. The only place with sewing supplies was the dollar store that closed some two years ago. So much for that.
Still virtuously indoors, I polished off Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills, last read a good thirty years ago or more. I've at least grown a little more savvy in the interim, because the twistiness of the story didn't register with me at all then, nor for that matter the forboding atmosphere which is Ishiguro's particular specialty. His flat affectless narrators always suggest horrors to come, just by the tapwater quality of their voices, and even when they don't come, the fantods remain. It's a neat trick and I wish I knew how he did it.
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The local sewing shops are still open and doing decent trade, though aware they may have to shut down at any point. The local rpg/comic shop is also still open, and the guy behind the till (they know me there) said that while the actual number of people coming in is way down, everyone who does come in is there to buy something, so actual trade is more or less normal. Presumably those people who have hobbies are getting stocked up before the probable lockdown hits.
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OTOH found two 'good enough' threaders at the bottom of my sewing box, so can make a mask of sorts.
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I always press walk buttons with my knuckle and wash hands after coming inside.
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"Wish I'd thought of it first.)
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