A lady from church brought back a serving dish that had belonged to my wife. She apologised for keeping it so long, said it had been at the back of a cupboard and she had only just found it. I remembered the dish before I remembered lending it. My wife used it for peach cobbler, and for a moment I could see her laying a towel over it by the door. I was glad to have it back and sorry in a way I had not expected on an ordinary afternoon. I told the lady she had nothing to apologise for. The dish is on the kitchen table tonight. I have not decided which cupboard it ought to go in.

Took my granddaughter's shopping bag to the kitchen and found she had put all the tins on one side. I could feel that side pulling at my fingers before I reached the table. Set it down and carried the remaining things a few at a time, though she told me I need not make a ceremony of it. These hands still manage small jobs well, but a narrow handle takes some persuading on a cool afternoon. We had tea afterwards. Holding the warm cup with both hands was pleasant, and I let her open the biscuit tin without demonstrating that I could have done it. There were enough other demonstrations for one visit.

One of my students knows every step when we talk before the lesson, then forgets the next one when a car appears behind us. I have been thinking about how much I say at that moment. Three useful instructions can become three more things she is trying to carry in her head. Today I asked her what she could see, and waited for her answer before adding anything. It took longer than simply telling her. I wanted to fill the silence more than once. She found her way through the manoeuvre, not perfectly, but knowing what she had done. Next lesson I shall see what she remembers without my prompting.