We lost a point at the pub quiz over a question so badly worded that I could have built a respectable lesson around its failings. Apparently this was not what the rest of the table wanted to hear. I've been replaying the wording on the walk home, partly because I still think we were right and partly because I know I'd tell a pupil not to spend the evening arguing over one mark. Context matters, I'd say. So does accepting that the quizmaster wants to get to the music round before closing. Unfortunately, being aware that I'm being tiresome hasn't made the answer less wrong. I may have to carry this minor injustice until next Thursday.

My ankle held up through five-a-side, but the left hamstring has been making its position clear every time I get out of a classroom chair. During the game I felt reasonably quick, which may say more about the opposition than my fitness. Today I bent to pick up a dropped pen and had to reconsider the entire movement halfway down. A pupil offered to get it and was mercifully polite about the arrangement. I walked home rather than catching a lift, slowly enough for the tightness to ease. The trouble is that by Wednesday I'll remember running around, not negotiating with a pen, and decide I don't need the extra few minutes warming up.

My daughter passed me in the school corridor and gave me the smallest possible nod. We'd agreed I wouldn't make a fuss around her friends, so she did exactly what I asked, and I still felt a little rejected. I managed not to call after her, an achievement for which the school will presumably issue no certificate. At home she told me about something funny in the same corridor, quite freely, and I realised there was no problem to solve. She wants her own school day, not a day spent being the history teacher's daughter. I understand that. Understanding it and enjoying the first few public demonstrations are apparently separate jobs.