We're doing a jigsaw of a snowy street and I have spent far too long insisting one piece belongs beside a window. The color fits. The shape nearly fits. My husband says nearly is the part that means it doesn't fit, which is very helpful of him. I moved on to the roof and found the actual window piece immediately. Now the first one is sitting alone in the middle of the table, looking exactly like a bit of sky. I like this kind of problem after work: everything needed is supposed to be in the box, nobody changes the order halfway through, and if we leave it overnight it won't spoil. Unless the cat steals the evidence.

The first sip of coffee was too hot, but holding the mug felt good after the meat room. My fingers take a while to warm up even with gloves on the job, and I hadn't noticed how stiffly I was moving them until I tried to open the snack wrapper. No injury, just cold hands being unhelpful. Back on the block I changed my stance because I'd been putting more weight on one heel. That helped more than stretching in place. At home the cat sat against my forearm while I did a puzzle, trapping it in a position I would never accept at work. I stayed that way until the elbow started to feel tight. He was offended when I moved.

One of the newer cutters asked me to check an order before he wrapped it. It was right, and I told him so. He looked relieved enough that I added that I wasn't looking for a reason to reject everything he did. He said he knew, but I wasn't sure he did. That bothered me. I'm proud of what he's learning and apparently I mostly communicate what still needs fixing. Later he made a joke about my handwriting on the order sheet and I was glad he felt comfortable enough. The handwriting deserved it. I don't want everyone handling me as carefully as the knives.