Someone at the allotment asked if I thought I could repeat the leek result and I said we'd see, very modest, very sensible. Then I spent the whole afternoon feeling competitive enough to be a nuisance. I know perfectly well it's a vegetable show and nobody's life depends on it, but I like having something I want to win without pretending I'm doing it for somebody else's benefit. Brian says Dad would have been unbearable about the trophy. Aye, he would, and I wish he were here to be unbearable with me. That made me sad for a minute, then I went back to inspecting the row. One of the neighbours caught me measuring twice. Let him wonder.

At the quiz we argued over an answer I was absolutely certain of, and the woman who spoke most quietly turned out to be right. I could practically hear my old ward voice coming out as I explained why it couldn't be hers. It was hers. No disaster, we changed it before handing the sheet in, but I dislike how much confidence I had attached to a half-remembered television programme. At work there were reasons for being decisive, though even there you checked when someone knew better. Over a pub table I was just being stubborn. I've still got the wrong answer lodged in my head this morning, which is irritating. Facts don't seem impressed by seniority.

Had a decent walk over the Town Moor and got home warm enough to leave my coat on the chair instead of putting it straight back on the hook. The hip grumbled for the first few minutes, then settled, and I could lengthen my stride without thinking about it. That's a better morning than one spent hovering over the plot and pretending twenty minutes' digging is a rest. Ate my lunch with a proper appetite and sat still afterwards because I actually wanted to, not because something hurt. Brian came in, saw my feet up and asked if I was poorly. I said no, I'm sitting down. Apparently we've reached the point where that requires an explanation.