A fruitcake and a couple of jars of Seville orange marmalade are packed up and ready to mail to Windsor, where Edmund’s favourite sister lives. That errand will force me out of the house today, so I might as well knock off several tasks that have been nibbling at the edge of awareness for a while. What used to be a substantial supply of Christmas wrapping paper is almost exhausted — how did that happen? And I need — excuse me, “need” — some witty Christmas cards, preferably without cats on them.

I am pleased to report that the rubber curb ramps spiked into the driveway are working well to get the car in and out of the garage, especially with a layer of rammed snow on the driveway to improve the angle of the drop. I have to back the car out very gingerly, however, as the clutter of neighbours’ vehicles on the street, the height of the snowbanks, and the lack of a sidewalk make for truly lousy sight-lines. The safest place for pedestrians is the middle of the street.

Backing into the garage turned out to be too dangerous because the rubber ramps are slippery when wet, causing the hind end of the car to slew just when it needs a little extra shot of gas to get up the slope. The last time I did it cost me the driver’s side rearview mirror, and I’m not risking that again. The repair was very expensive, and I had to drive around for two weeks wearing the plastic garbage bag of shame over the wreckage. Changing lanes in the tumult of the Hunt Club Road was no fun, either. I think I put an extra pleat in my neck from peering like an owl over my left shoulder.