No run this morning, toddler awake early and determined that the sitting-room rug was a boat. I spent twenty minutes kneeling on it, rescuing the same stuffed rabbit from the same patch of imaginary water. My knee objected more than it does on the hills, though I couldn't explain that to a captain who wanted her crew seated. When I finally stood up I had pins and needles in one foot and a very warm child hanging round my neck. Porridge went cold. By the time we ate I was properly hungry and pleasantly awake, without a single useful figure recorded on the watch.

At the village shop someone asked whether Beth was enjoying being the rector's wife. She teaches half their children, has a name and certainly works harder than I do at plenty of things, so I was unexpectedly cross. Gave a cheerful answer about her class instead of saying that. Then I told her at tea, expecting a shared grumble, and she said she'd been hearing it for two years. Ah. I felt rather late to the matter. She wasn't asking me to make a speech about it, just to notice. I did feel protective, but perhaps also a bit embarrassed that I thought I'd discovered something new.

Planning the shared harvest supper and immediately began dividing jobs between the six parishes like a military exercise. Beth asked whether anybody had actually said they wanted the same sort of evening. Fair question. One group thinks supper means a hot meal, another has already offered sandwiches, and I suspect a third is mainly hoping to avoid another meeting. I want them together, not simply in one room while I congratulate myself. Will ring a couple of people before drawing up the rota. The difficult question isn't who brings pudding but whether they want to sit somewhere other than their usual table.