The person I like at orchestra asked to borrow my pencil, then gave it back with a little drawing on the scrap paper wrapped round it. A terrible violin. Four strings would have been a generous interpretation. I laughed normally, I think, and put the paper in my pocket as if I collect other people's rubbish all the time. Have looked at it twice since getting home. I'm pleased in a very obvious, slightly embarrassing way, except nobody here knows why. Mum asked whether rehearsal was good and I said the second half was better. Technically an answer. Not to the question I heard.

Forgot the biscuit in my bag, remembered it halfway through rehearsal when my stomach made a noise during an impressively quiet bit. Nobody reacted, which somehow made it worse. My fingers were cold at first and I kept pressing too hard on the strings, so by the break the tips felt oddly hot while the rest of my hands were still freezing. Ate the biscuit outside the hall. Mostly crumbs, obviously, but I stopped feeling so hollow and cross within a few minutes. I really can spend an hour analysing a town's services while failing to provide myself with one basic snack.

I'm drawing the empty shop beside the charity shop again, and keep putting imaginary people in the doorway then rubbing them out. Without people the building looks abandoned; with them I'm pretending I've solved why it closed. A café would look nice on paper, but there are already three nearby and Mum says I can't regenerate a town entirely on cake. Fair. I want to ask the charity shop manager what customers say they miss, rather than invent another tasteful workshop for people like me. The drawing still needs finishing for art, though. Evidence gathering is becoming a very sophisticated way of avoiding the windows.