Finally called the accountant about my taxes. He seems unaware that we're quarantining at the moment, and social distancing, because he was all set for me to come up to his place tomorrow. Told him no, not doing that, I'll send the papers in a taxi. 'But how will I know to be in when it comes?' Guy, why are you * out*, is what I want to know. As for signing forms afterwards, since I can't print and mail, he'll mail them to me and then I can mail them to him. Good thing the gov't has given an extension.
Sorted three bags of clean laundry yesterday and put clothese away in overflowing drawers. 'I have too many clothes,' I thought. Then 'No, I don't have enough work.' Two drawers of tank tops? Well, usually I wear one a day. Eight long- sleeved shirts? Ditto. Now I wear t- shirts, which is normally impossible because either the weather is too cold or too warm outside, and if cold, work has the heat on and I sweat, or work doesn't have the heat on and the rooms warm up from the mass of bodies. And yes, I'm still a little cool in this t-shirt, but that's cause the thermostat is turned down and the window is open.
The only clothes I run out of these days, underwear aside, is socks, because I go in stockinged feet inside the house and they get grubby. But as I contemplate my increasing crippledom, it's getting clear that even when work resumes, I won't be able to. Which raises the question of what to do with all my bleach-stained, ragbag, tops and trousers. Ah well. Shall cross that bridge when I come to it.