My daughter asked why the lift in my childhood block kept getting stuck, and I began an explanation about maintenance before realising she wanted to know why we didn't simply use the stairs. Fair question. I have spent years remembering the interesting machinery and hardly thinking about carrying shopping up four floors. Mama remembers the shopping very clearly and thinks my fondness for that lift is ridiculous. We talked about it on the phone and she named neighbors I had forgotten, then described exactly who complained and who pretended not to hear the alarm. I remember forty minutes of adventure; she remembers being late for dinner. Same building, rather different inspection reports.

Spent the morning in the garden instead of the van and discovered that pulling weeds uses a completely different collection of muscles from climbing a lift-pit ladder. I was warm enough to take my jumper off before breakfast, with soil on both knees and the lurcher lying across the patch I had just cleared. Very helpful assistant. By lunchtime my hands had that pleasant tired feeling where holding a mug is enough work. My husband offered to finish the last corner and I said no because I wanted the satisfaction of seeing it done, then left the last corner anyway when our daughter came out with sandwiches. There were better things to hold than weeds.

At a care home I visit regularly, one of the ladies remembered that my daughter had started preschool and wanted to know whether she liked it. I was ridiculously pleased she remembered, especially as our previous conversation had been conducted beside a temporarily unavailable lift with a manager hovering. She said she missed hearing the small details about children now that her grandchildren were grown. We talked while I finished my notes, and I left smiling. I often say my job is mostly driving and checking equipment, but some days it includes being asked a proper question by somebody who actually waits for the answer. Lovely visit, even with the terrible coffee.