I cut my thumb while cooking. Not badly, but enough to bleed all over the potatoes I was chopping, so I had to put a plaster on it. Such a tiny change, but it messes up so much.

The plaster gets wet and dirty the moment I touch anything in the kitchen, so I try to avoid using my thumb when cooking. When I do use it, my grip is off. And then my brain somehow goes from “don’t use the thumb” to “just avoid that part of the hand” so I find myself doing things with my middle finger instead of the index finger, for no good reason at all, which makes the weirdness even weirder. Give me back my thumb!

We have a cleaning service who come here every other Tuesday and spend three ours vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing the toilets and such. I’m very happy about this luxury but I will never, ever get used to how the cleaners all move things around. One of them was so bad about it that we had to ask the company to swap her out and send someone else. I literally couldn’t find things after she had been here, and at one point had to by a replacement some kitchen utensil because she had put it away somewhere and I only found it weeks later.

They normally don’t even move things very far or to particularly odd places. It’s just that we like having every thing in its proper place, because that place has emerged as the best and most proper one after potentially years of tweaking. Especially on the kitchen counter. The salt will always be to the left of the pepper because the pepper mill is taller and is easier to grab if it isn’t too close to the knife block. The dish detergent has to be to the left of the soap dispenser because we use it more often and it’s easier to reach there. And so on. By now their proper places are deeply ingrained in memory, and when things that I use daily get moved, it really throw me off.

Today the coffee table had been shifted literally just a few centimetres from its normal spot. That was more than enough to feel off when I put my feet up on it (which I was definitely brought to not do but like an utter slob I still do it anyway). Muscle memory is a strong thing.

Some friends of ours have left town to spend most of the summer at their cottage. We’re picking up their mail – and plant-sitting their potted cucumber.

We cycled to the recycling centre in Bromma. All the way there and back, the sky loomed over us and the air felt like it should start raining any moment, but not a single drop actually fell.

I feel a bit bad about depriving the family of home-grown strawberries (even though they probably don’t really expect me to provide any) so I’m solving the problem by throwing money at it and saying yes to buying strawberries whenever Adrian asks for them. It’s a good thing he does ask, because I would be stingier if I was buying just for myself.

Adrian and I often eat cereal with yoghurt and a generous heaping of fresh strawberries for breakfast. (Meanwhile Ingrid sleeps until late morning and doesn’t really do breakfast at all, and Eric has already left for work after a much earlier and simpler meal.)

We won’t be getting many strawberries this year, if any, because I really haven’t been taking care of the garden at all. The tall grass doesn’t matter but I really should have replaced the nets. I didn’t, though, so now the deer have eaten most of the strawberry plants. Well, there’s always next year.

Watching the rain while transferring Adrian’s scout badges from his old, outgrown shirt to a new one. This is the last time I’m doing this; next time he can do his own sewing.

Raindrops on flowers may be corny but I still love them.

Cycled to Myrorna in Sundbyberg with Adrian, mostly to get out of the house and get some exercise. Adrian cycling naturally at a sustainable speed is a good match for me with a trailer cycling with not much of an effort.