Dad found an old order book from the shop and asked whether I could make out a name in the margin. I spent ages trying to turn the letters into a surname before he remembered it was the name of a newspaper, shortened in a way only he understood. Once he said it, the handwriting seemed obvious. I keep thinking about how much of reading is knowing what sort of thing you're expecting to find. At work I can spot a missing line in a familiar certificate almost immediately, then struggle with perfectly clear writing in an unfamiliar form. The old book is full of Dad's private abbreviations. I want to ask about a few more before he decides the whole thing can go in recycling.

Chopping onions for dinner made my eyes water so much that my partner came in to find me blinking at the wall with the knife put safely down. He suggested opening the window, which was irritatingly effective. Once the onions were cooking, the warmth from the hob and the smell of the spices made me realise I was properly hungry, not just thinking that dinner ought to happen. I'd been sitting most of the day and standing there felt surprisingly comfortable. Shoulders still tight, but my hands had something to do that didn't involve lining up paper. Ate rather quickly when it was ready. Now I'm pleasantly full and the kitchen is warm enough that neither of us wants to start washing up.

We lost the pub quiz by one point and I was disproportionately annoyed because I'd talked everyone out of the correct answer. Said I was certain, too. An excellent phrase to have witnesses for. My partner was delighted, not that we'd lost but that the supposedly careful one had argued so confidently for nonsense. I laughed with him eventually, though there was a minute when I wanted to explain exactly why my guess had been reasonable. Nobody needed that speech over the crisps. It was a good evening, genuinely, and I'm glad we went. Still looked the answer up again on the tram, as if the internet might take my side on a second reading. It didn't.