A tenant who moved out a while back came by with her little boy, who is no longer particularly little. He remembered where I keep the tools and wanted to see the workshop like it was some attraction he'd missed. I was pleased, more than I let on, and kept finding things to show him while his mother waited patiently. We don't always hear how people are doing once their names come off the buzzer. I worry about some of them, then tell myself turnover is normal. Seeing these two settled and happy was good. After they left I put a broken drawer handle back on the bench exactly where it had been. Didn't feel like rushing to the next thing for a minute.

Put the keys down when we got to my mother's and kept reaching for my belt through the first half of dinner. Nothing there, which should have been relaxing but mostly felt like I'd misplaced a piece of myself. The phone was in the basket with everybody else's. After a while my shoulders dropped and I noticed I was actually hungry, not just eating because there was a gap between calls. Went back for more before the kids got it all. When we left, the keyring felt heavier than usual against my hip. Same keys, same building waiting at home. For about an hour I hadn't been listening for anything wrong, and that was a pretty decent part of the meal.

I've been trying to work out why an email from the property manager bothered me when the request itself was reasonable. They want a list of recurring issues, fair enough. It was the suggestion that this would finally give us an overview, as if nobody has known the building until we colour the cells. My first draft was not suitable for sending. My wife read it and asked whether I wanted the repairs approved or wanted them to understand my entire twelve years here. Both, obviously, but apparently there is no box for that. I've got the list ready. Still deciding how much history belongs beside each item before the useful information disappears under my opinion.