The crime novel has given its suspect an alibi dependent on a journey across Sheffield in twelve minutes. I put the book down to work out the route, then realised I was supplying the roads as they were before the changes, whereas the story is plainly contemporary. This leaves me unsure whether I have found the author's error or my own. The sensible course is to carry on reading; instead I have inspected the map and lost track of who was supposed to be in the car. If the solution turns out to involve a secret twin, none of this diligence will have been necessary.

A young woman at the library remembered me from the old branch, though I should not have recognised her without the explanation about her mother and the overdue pony books. She said I had always found her something she could finish. I was touched, and immediately spoiled the moment by asking whether she still read. She does, before anyone imagines a moral decline. Afterwards I wished I had simply thanked her for telling me. One cannot conduct every pleasant encounter as a follow-up enquiry. Still, I have remembered her words several times this evening, with a quite unreasonable amount of pleasure.

Took the longer way home because the pavement outside the chemist was obstructed, and found that the return climb required considerably more attention than the outward walk. I was not in pain; I was simply obliged to stop speaking to a neighbour halfway through a sentence and recover my breath, which was irritating. The stick was useful on the uneven bit, a concession I shall not be announcing widely. At home I sat without removing my coat, with warm feet and a rather damp back, while Marjorie inspected the shopping. It took several minutes before I wanted tea more than I wanted to remain seated.