The man from book club brought back a book with a slip of paper marking a passage he thought I'd enjoy, and I was so touched I promptly made a joke about charging rent for the bookmark. Why do I do that? He wasn't proposing marriage, he was remembering what I like to read. We had tea outside and I kept wanting to tell him three things at once, then worrying I was filling all the air again. When he left I read the marked bit twice. He's right, I do like it. I'm pleased and a little frightened by being remembered accurately, not just as the woman with another story to tell.

Put the fiddle away and discovered my left hand was still curled around an imaginary neck, which is dedication or failure to release equipment, take your pick. I'd been trying one turn in the tune over and over, not fast, just until my fingers could find it without my eyes supervising. The old wrist grew stiff before the rest of me wanted to stop. Warm water felt wonderful, and then I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cupboard, listening to the kettle rather than another demonstration online. I can feel the tune in my fingertips even now. It sounded considerably better there than it did in the room.

Trying to paint the river from memory this morning, I put the bend in the wrong place and spent twenty minutes defending it to an empty kitchen. I know that bend; I've sat above it often enough. But the thing I remember is where the light landed, so I keep shifting the bank to put the light back where it felt right. Is that still a painting of the place? Probably, though I would object strongly if someone moved a rock that way on an actual river map. I've left the paper to dry. There's a muddy patch where I corrected it, and that may be the most river-like part of the whole thing.