Today I must clear the dead leaves off the patio or I will be sorry later. The latest dump of snow has melted and the temperature will be over freezing at least until tonight, so I can get it done. If I leave it any longer and the patio ices up over the thick blanket of leaves currently covering the entire area, it will be a godawful mess in the spring.

Likewise, laundry. I'm running low on clean underwear again.

I have lost more weight and have had to buy new bras a size smaller. Fortunately, I had a couple of smaller-sized sports bras left over from a few years ago, but one is grey and the other is black, and both of them feel rather more Iron Maidenish than is consistent with day-long comfort. Meanwhile, the Post Office is taking its sweet time about delivering the new ones I ordered two weeks ago. Only to be expected; everything is wonky these days. Even the liquor store is "advising" (read: urging) its customers to buy early for Christmas to avoid disappointment.

I got fired from the book club this week. I'm angry at myself for not reading the room, and embarrassed because it's really difficult to avoid people in this small town; sooner or later, everyone goes to the supermarket. But it's a sign that all is not entirely well in my head; too easily, I get ticked off and say things I should not say, definitely not in that company. For the last year, I have managed to keep my keel more or less even by filling my awareness with stuff to do, but I've done all the un-muddling and decluttering jobs. That leaves me fretful and unfocussed, and only too aware that I'm on my own with my thoughts and frustrations. On a bad day, I really have to watch myself and bridle my tongue. Of course, on a bad day, I find out it's a bad day when I have already committed a social sin and it's too late to fix it.

Crap.

I'll get over it, as I have recovered from past such incidents, but it will take a while. I won't dive into the whisky bottle or indulge in any of the perfectly legal cannabis brownies now available in Stratford. I've been drafted into the rag-tag remnant of the church choir (still no choral singing allowed) for carolling gigs, and the concert choir is reaching another bend in the road with the end of the current series of "vocal recovery" sessions. That means getting the executive through a series of votes to fund the new conductor's plans to hire an accompanist and move us into a better rehearsal space. I just have to hang on to my temper.

Christmas will be tough this year.