I've already written this, but SAVE doesn't seem to mean the same thing to Squarespace that it does to me. So I'll write again, in praise of my polymath grandson, William.

I've written about Wiiliam before, how awesome he is and here is another proof. He reads my blogs (can you believe it?) and he responded to a recent one in which I was complaining of a pain in stiff muscles from having indulged myself in a Blue Bloods Marathon, sitting in a bad chair in front of the bedroom television because the living room set was showing only talking lips and headless bodies. He not only sympathized but suggested a practical solution, that he come and take a look at the weird picture. He did and he did - not only looked at it but fixed it, and adjusted the sound while he was at it. Amazing!

I am not quite computer-illiterate, but almost. I am so grateful (and awestruck) that this young man has mastered such computer skills, and that he helps his grandmother. Wow!

You already know that I procrastinate. And I have told you that procrastination brings its own rewards, like not having to mend or iron things that have been left so long they don't fit anyone I know. That used to be true, but I live alone now and my children have completed their vertical growth, anyway, so they don't outgrow clothes the way they used to. But I have encountered a new pleasure predicated on procrastination (sorry, but I love alliteration). Coupons.

I'm clearing out my Paper Desk, catching up on neglected correspondence (with computer-illiterate friends, and I have several). And I have come across obsolete discount coupons, expiring at the end of 2014, and some, even better, as early as 2013. It is with such a feeling of abandon that I toss them in the waste basket for recycling. They don't owe me anything, nor I them, not even a spasm of guilt.

The one thing I cannot toss, of course, is a note to myself. Several notes begin with "I cannot go anywhere without paper..." and there follows a date, a time, and usually, the name of the place where I am writing. It might be a clinic waiting room, an airport lounge or, most frequently, a coffee shop, waiting for a friend. (I'm always early, having allowed enough time to get lost.) I remember reporting on Joan Didion's collection of these bits of paper; she compared hers to a ball of string. It might look impressive but it's just short bits, nothing long enough even to make a cat's cradle (that's my expression, not hers). So I don't throw out my paper trail.

But everything else has gone past its recommended date and must go. It feels good.