I'm drawing a mudroom with enough space for boots, coats and the person trying to remove both at once. The plan looked generous until I pictured two grandchildren entering together with a dog behind them. We tend to draw storage as tidy rectangles and then expect the inhabitants to behave accordingly. My own dining table currently holds a cardboard model and a bag of dog biscuits, so I have useful evidence against this expectation. I tried a bench that can be approached from either end instead of one tucked neatly into the corner. Less elegant on the plan. Possibly much less swearing when everybody comes indoors.

Walked the fence line with the heeler after a morning at the drawing table and found my hands stayed curled around an imaginary pencil for the first few minutes. Both thumbs were stiff, not enough to stop anything, just enough to make unlatching the gate a two-handed job. The dog waited with great patience until I got it open, then behaved as if the delay had been entirely my fault. Coming uphill I could feel my calves working and my feet finally warming inside the boots. Back at the house I left the drawings alone while I made lunch. Slicing an apple was a reasonable enough use for the hands for a while.

A client asked whether going back to school at my age had been brave. I said it had mostly been expensive, which got the laugh I intended and ended the question. Driving home, I wished I had answered less defensively. She wasn't calling me an elderly mascot; she seemed to be considering something of her own. I'm touchy about the subject because I want people to ask about the building, but I did spend years hoping somebody would ask why I hadn't tried architecture. Both things appear to be true. I don't owe a speech about courage, though I could probably have allowed her more than one sentence.