2. Finding that the mysteriously but unsalvageably stained grey shirt works just fine as a sleep shirt.
3. Winning a $30 dinner voucher at Pauper's Pub. 'Drawing every hour,' my waiter said in his unplaceable Scots accent. I filled out the stub with my address and home phone. 'This is the 7 o'clock draw,' the maitre d' says. 'Consult your cell phones.' Ah well, so much for that. But as I'm leaving the Scots waiter comes up with my stub. 'This is yours, innit? I recognize the handwriting.'
However there's a problem- not with the dinner but with the tops. My work being as it is, I never wear the same top two days running; and I being as I am, I never throw anything out. The result is that I have a stack of raggedy t-shirts and bleach-stained tank tops and ancient cotton tops and hoodies from decades back, and I generally look like a ragbag on work days. I'd be happy to replace all these but I've been reading about how much fibre gets chucked in the garbage, and how one ought to recycle somehow. There's some debate about the charity that recycles unusable clothing in Ontario, though since the debate mostly comes from the Salvation Army I'm not too worried about it. And there's a bin two doors away from my acupuncturist.
But some clothes have sentimental value, like the shawl my students' parents gave me in Japan or my corduroy Laura Ashley dress from the 70s. I see there's such a thing as rag quilts made from loved textiles and I wonder if mine are usable for that. And if one needs a sewing machine for them, because if so, forget it.