My girlfriend sent a picture of a resale flat with a small room she said could be my office. Not our spare room, my office. I was quite touched, which is not what I expected from a property listing sent during lunch. She had noticed that the window was away from the afternoon sun and said there would be space for the boxes currently under my bed. I started replying about the asking price, then put the phone down because I wanted to look at the room again first. I could imagine working there. That made me happy and slightly nervous, in roughly equal amounts. I told her I liked the window. There was more to say than that.

Went one bus stop farther after visiting the bicycle shop client, partly because I had just missed the bus and did not want to stand there watching its back. By the next stop my shirt was damp between the shoulders and the laptop bag seemed considerably heavier than when I left. I am not carrying more things, just feeling all of them. Bought cold water and drank half before the next bus came. The air-conditioning felt good for about a minute, then too cold through the damp shirt. My calves were fine though, unlike after badminton. Apparently walking to transport does not require the same recovery period as unsuccessfully chasing a shuttlecock.

The cafe owner asked whether staying open an extra hour would be worth it. I can calculate what that hour has to bring in, but the till total does not tell me which customers would simply move their usual order later. That is the part I keep circling. If I use all the evening sales as new business, the answer looks much better than it should. I have asked him to record the last hour separately for a week and note how many tables stay, nothing elaborate. He replied with three voice messages about the cafe down the road. I have listened twice. Useful background, but I still do not have his staff cost for that hour.