The grocer says a customer came back asking for my chilli jars. Not asking for any hot sauce, asking for the ones from the local man. I ask which size and when, like it is only an order to organise. Inside I am pleased. More pleased than for most things that happen in the factory. Somebody eats something I make and remembers it. I tell my wife the grocer needs more jars and she says she can hear me being proud even when I discuss the lids. She is laughing but not against me this time. I put the empty jars in a row on the counter and the girls count them. They want to draw labels. We will see about that.

After night shift I take off the factory gloves and still feel the cold between the fingers. In the van I put both hands on my legs before driving, not squeezing them, just waiting until they feel like mine again. Today at the allotment the sun is already on one side of the shed. I sit there with the flask and let the warmth come through the sleeves. The wrist clicks when I lift the cup but I can hold it steady. I am tired in the eyes more than in the legs. Only water the plants, no digging, then home. My youngest puts her hand on my cheek and says I am cold. Eleven years in sandwiches and still not properly defrosted.

My daughter has a maths question about sharing something equally and I explain with trays from the line, which makes her look at me as if I am bringing chicken sandwiches into the homework on purpose. The numbers are easy for me when there is something real to count. On her page I have to read the question twice, checking if equally means the same amount or the same number of pieces. She is quicker reading it. I am quicker spotting the total is wrong. We spend ten minutes arguing about a drawing and then find she has copied one number badly. Good. A problem with a clear reason, not everybody having a different opinion about fairness.