Wednesday was spent in the company of a fellow chorister who had a malignant breast tumour removed at the Stratford General Hospital. She's 80 years old with heart problems and lots of arthritis, but the hospitals are such risky territory these days that the surgeon decided she would be better off as a day patient -- as long as she had someone to ferry her to and from the hospital and stay with her overnight in case Something Went Wrong. That someone was me.

Nothing went wrong, thank God. Mary Lou's house is so cluttered I would have had a hell of a time doing anything effective if I had had to. My need for neatness seems less obsessive-compulsive this morning than it usually does.

Much of what remained of Edmund's accumulated office supplies has gone to his university-bound great-niece, Faith, leaving my six-foot folding table almost clear. (I can't believe he had four paper punches: two three-holers, a two-holer and a one-holer.) Faith was also glad to accept a briefcase, reducing the household strategic reserve to five. Alas, she did not want a stapler, so I still have three.

The next class of items to be rehomed is old spectacles, of which I have about a dozen pairs. In these parts, the Lions Club collects used specs for a charity that takes them to places where opticians prefer not to go. I should be able to unload all the excess by Sunday, keeping only my back-up bifocals and one pair of non-scrip Ray-Ban shades.