My mother described a dish she'd made on Sunday and I wrote the ingredients down, though she gives quantities as if everybody owns her particular spoon. I tried it tonight and it tasted close, not quite right. Now I'm wondering whether I remember the food or the whole business of eating it in her kitchen, with the windows open and people calling from outside. You can't put that in a saucepan. Still, I think I used too much onion, which is a more useful explanation. I'll ask her next week, but not before she tells me what she's been doing. Last time I turned our call into twenty questions and only found out at the end that she'd had visitors all afternoon.

Sat on a bench in the gardens with my coat open and the sun on my knees. I had meant to walk the whole route, but it was warm there and my feet were quite happy with a shorter outing. At first I kept holding my bag against my stomach as though somebody might ask me to get off at the next stop. Put it beside me eventually. I could feel myself breathing lower down, not that little breath I take when I'm checking the time. There was a breeze across my forehead and the rest of me stayed warm. Very pleasant until a fly became interested in my biscuit. I finished it quicker than planned, but I stayed sitting there. No particular reason to move yet.

My husband announced that his friend was coming for dinner as though the meal would expand by itself. I know the man, I like him, that is not the point. There was enough food, so my husband thinks there was no problem. I was still annoyed while setting the extra place, and then annoyed with myself because our guest could probably tell. I want to be welcoming without having decisions made over my head. Afterward my husband said I take these things too seriously. That did not improve matters. We are speaking normally now, but I have not agreed that it was only a little surprise. A phone call before inviting him would have taken less time than this argument.