My husband's daughter rang to ask what I thought of a flat she'd seen, then said she trusted me to tell her if she was being silly. I was ridiculously pleased, much more pleased than when a client says the same thing, and immediately tried to hide it by making a joke about my consultation fees. She told me not to start and carried on talking. That's the bit I liked most, actually, that she didn't have to be careful with me. When we first married her dad I used to check every bit of teasing for evidence I wasn't wanted. Tonight I was happy to be mocked and consulted in the same breath. I still gave an opinion longer than she'd asked for. Some professional habits survive affection.

Three viewings and one pair of shoes chosen entirely for appearances, so naturally the longest garden belonged to that pair. By the time I got back to the car my toes were pressing together and I could feel every little stone I'd walked over. Swapped into the old boots for the last appointment and suddenly remembered that feet are meant to have room. At home I put them up while the spaniel inspected my ankles, which apparently contained the full county's news. My hip was stiff getting off the sofa but settled once I moved about. I rather enjoyed standing in the kitchen in socks, no flattering posture required, eating a piece of cheese before supper.

Mother remembers a house by who was ill there, I remember it by who bought it and what they paid, and we can spend ten minutes talking before discovering it's the same place. Tonight she described a back bedroom I had thought of only as the room with the awkward ceiling. To her it was where a woman kept a little radio beside the bed and insisted on having the window open. I've been trying to picture it furnished that way instead of as a photograph for a listing. Every house must contain dozens of versions I've never seen. Naturally I still knew the staircase measurement and Mother still thought that was the least interesting thing about it.