Ah, yes: what to do with fifty-mission legs in a youth-obsessed culture! Between the scars and the broken veins, it’s hard to find any part of my undercarriage that doesn’t look like the aftermath of a flak attack.

A few years ago I bought a pair of loose linen trousers with a drawstring waistband. I get an unpleasant rash when the summer heat and humidity hit their peak, so I wear those with a south Asian-style cotton shirt that I can sweat through without regret. In June it’s usually still cool enough here for a quilt on the bed and a jacket after dark. July and August can be scorching hot in Ontario, but not all the time and it’s over by mid-September. I would not do well in Texas.

Over the next week or so I intend to empty out the bins of really old clothes — my grandfather’s McGill sweater (circa 1907) and Great-uncle Alfred’s tails (1917!), for example. It's time to get ruthless; that stuff will never be worn again and it’s time to stop storing it. If I stiffen up my spine and buckle down to the job, I could clear the shelving in the basement and give the bins to the Mennonites or the Sally Ann.