I am trying to put dates on a handful of holiday photographs without making the children's ages fit whichever year I happen to remember first. One picture seemed certain until I recognised a coat my wife bought much later. It is a useful correction, although mildly irritating to discover how confidently I had arranged the wrong sequence. The photographs are not getting more accurate through my staring at them. I have sent two to my son and left the rest in a separate envelope. There is no deadline, only my preference for a finished drawer. Some of the labels will have to say approximately, a word I can tolerate in the right place.

Kneaded the brown bread by hand this morning and was reminded how different a task feels when one cannot remain perfectly clean doing it. The mixture caught between my fingers, and I kept reaching for more flour when patience would have served. My hands warmed as I worked; the first stiff movements became easier, though I was glad to stop leaning over the bowl. Sat down while it baked and noticed I was hungry, rather than merely aware that breakfast was due. The first slice was still too warm to cut neatly. I ate the untidy end standing at the counter, which would have earned a comment from my wife about pretending it did not count.

My walking companion noticed my haircut and said it suited me. An entirely ordinary remark, but I was pleased enough to become unnecessarily informative about the barber's new premises. I could simply have said thank you. Afterwards I found myself looking at my reflection in a shop window, not to check the cut exactly, more to see the person she had been looking at. I have no grand conclusion to draw from it. Being noticed kindly was pleasant, and I had not expected it that morning. My sister rang later; I did not mention it, because she would have supplied the grand conclusion before I finished the sentence.