Mauzy morning, so I stayed in and made bread instead of taking the shore walk straight away. The dough was cool at first and then warmed under my hands, quite different from holding the hook in the same little grip all afternoon. My fingers were stiff starting, but pressing with the heel of my hand felt comfortable enough. Had flour on my sleeve before I'd even finished the first loaf. When it was baking I sat near the kitchen window and realised I was hungry from the smell, not because it was anywhere near dinner. Cut the heel while it was still too warm. Butter went everywhere. No witnesses except the cat, who has his own standards.

At the craft circle somebody asked whether I'd ever thought of making a cheerful harbour mat, and I got prickly before she finished explaining. She didn't mean my work was miserable. She was remembering a day when the place was full of flags, a proper lovely day I'd forgotten. I was annoyed with myself afterwards because she had offered me a memory and I'd almost treated it as a complaint. On the way home I could see those flags again. Felt glad and sad together, nothing tidy about it. I rang her to ask which boat had been nearest the wharf. We spent half an hour disagreeing, both of us enjoying ourselves.

Trying to put the right colour in the water of the new mat. Everything I choose is either too blue or too much like dishwater, which I admit the bight can manage perfectly well without my assistance. Looking at an old photograph didn't help because now I'm arguing with the photograph. I remember the day brighter. Perhaps it was brighter because of who was there, but I still want somebody from here to look at the mat and recognise the place. Put three strips of wool beside the frame and left them while I made tea. Came back and preferred the one I'd rejected first. Some expensive decision-making, this, measured in tea bags.