My will is in the file drawer marked "Life"

Wow, that was fast! A few days ago Torontonians were wearing shorts, and today, there's a thick blanket of heavy wet snow. As a woman said to me, walking where I'd just shovelled, "Heart attack snow!" Let's hope not.

Though in the spirit of that, I just sent my daughter a list of where all my valuable documents are stored, including my will, the printout of my computer passwords, and all the files on the house, and that after I die I'd like a big party in the garden with lots of music and people saying nice things about me. l'm not intending to die anytime soon, but this is, after all, heart attack snow.

I teach tonight so am about to have my pre-teacherly nap. But first - the joys of Sunday night TV. 60 Minutes had a segment on the YIVO, the centre for Jewish research which was my go-to in New York for the Jewish Shakespeare. YIVO started its archives in Vilna; during the war, Nazis tried to obliterate the collection, but much was hidden and preserved, at great personal risk, by Jews there and even by a Catholic priest. Hooray for archives, archivists, librarians! What would we writers do without them?

Then a doc on the brilliant Canadian choreographer Crystal Pite's new work with the National Ballet, Angels' Ashes, and then back to trusty PBS for Magpie Murders and Annika, both terrific. Magpie is particularly fun, about an editor who becomes embroiled in investigating the murder of a best-selling author whose characters, almost all based on real people in his life, come alive for her. 

At 11, if I have the energy, I watch John Oliver's Last Week Tonight, though often he's just too vehement and it's too late for me. It was about the Royal Family, their abject ignoring of their colonial sins. 

For we who live alone, good television is a companion. I am so old that I pay for the TV guide and go through it with a pen. Yes. A dinosaur. 

Happy to report that tomorrow, when current tenant Carol moves out of my basement apartment, I'm able to offer it to Ukrainian refugees for two and a half weeks, until the next tenant moves in. Natalie and her ten-year old son fled Kiev early in the war; her mother lives here and is a friend of Monique's next door. But her mother supports Putin and lives in a small apartment, so Natalie needs to find somewhere for herself and her boy. I wish I could offer more, but at least they'll have autonomy for a bit. They will however have to listen to me butchering the Moonlight Sonata on the piano, but then everyone who lives downstairs has to put up with that.

Sam just texted that as he walked home from work, twice he passed old ladies pushing snow with a broom, and borrowed a shovel to do their walks for them. My good deeds boy. I sent him this picture, saying, since he's now a teetotaller, obviously he'll have luck with the ladies.

Have to say, objectively, that my handsome son has always had lots and lots of luck with the ladies. Though definitely not ones as stern as these. 

Nap time.