My son asked if his friend could come over next time he's here and I said we'd see, which sounded like no judging by his face. It wasn't no. I was thinking about two kids in this flat, where the second one would sit, whether he'd go home saying my boy sleeps on a bed that folds away. Then I was annoyed at myself for thinking that before being pleased he wanted to bring somebody. He showed me a game they could play together and started explaining how we could move the wee table. He'd already worked it out. I told him his pal could come for the afternoon. Still felt awkward asking what the child likes for his tea.

The boy wanted a kickabout, so I went down with him instead of announcing the football was on, and found out I can still place a pass but cannae chase the bloody thing afterwards. My shirt was stuck to my back inside ten minutes and I was taking those enormous breaths you try to disguise by giving tactical advice. He didn't need the advice. He needed me to stand in goal, which was considerably more my speed. Back upstairs I sat on the edge of the bath with my shoes off while he told his mum he'd scored eleven. My legs felt heavy all evening. Not the usual dead feeling after the desk, actual used legs, apparently still fitted.

Our chatbot now sends me a lovely summary saying the caller has restarted the machine. What it means is the caller said yes when asked. Same problem as before, only now it's formatted and someone thinks that's intelligence. I've been going through one stubborn ticket in my head because the user sounded genuinely certain, and it dawned on me on the bus that she might mean the screen, not the computer under the desk. I know that distinction. I also know I cut her off. I'll ask tomorrow, if the ticket hasn't been reassigned to someone who can listen for twelve seconds. Still don't see why we're paying for the extra layer of guessing.