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.