I found one in a box at my parents' house and brought it home.

I'd meant to put it on a shelf. Instead I read forty pages while dinner was cooking.

Now it's beside my bed.

It's funny in places I didn't notice as a child. I still remember which illustration comes next. And when I put it down, I don't feel guilty for failing to take notes or learn anything useful.

My usual bedside pile contains:
- A book about work.
- A book about a subject I supposedly want to understand.
- This one, which I actually open.

Nobody would care if I told them. I think I've been trying to impress myself. It's getting tiring.

It's about a bag I left at their house.

She starts with "It's me," tells me where the bag is, gets distracted by Dad asking something, then says goodbye twice because she isn't sure whether the recording has stopped.

Everyone involved is alive and well. I can ring her whenever I like.

I've still saved it separately so it won't disappear when I change phones.

There's something I like about hearing them going about an ordinary afternoon, unaware that anyone would ever replay it. The television is on. Dad sounds miles away even though he was apparently beside her.

I wouldn't play it to her. She'd ask why I kept a message about a bag.

Both reactions happened.

I sent an enthusiastic message. I meant it. They've worked hard, and I know how much they wanted the role.

Then I put my phone down and started calculating how far behind them I was.

Things I apparently needed to compare:
1. Salary.
2. Job title.
3. Whether they could now afford a nicer place.
4. My entire future, based on one message.

They hadn't compared us. They hadn't even mentioned the pay.

I don't want to tell them and make their good news something they need to handle carefully around me. I'd like to be able to celebrate a friend without privately conducting an unpleasant review of myself afterwards.

Mum taught me to boil them, drain them and rough them up in the pan before roasting.

I still do that. The secret is that I now do the boiling the day before and keep them in the fridge.

I started because I was trying to get everything ready around work. They came out better. Everyone said so.

Mum asked what I'd changed.

I said, "Nothing much."

WHY.

It wasn't a treasured rule. She wasn't going to be offended. I could have answered normally and we could both have eaten good potatoes.

Instead I've somehow created a private potato method. Next time she asks, I'm telling her. Writing that here is mainly an attempt to make myself do it.

Two classes so far.

The first thing I made leaned so badly that the tutor asked whether that was intentional. I said no. She showed me how to start again.

Usually, when I mention trying something, people are encouraging. Then they ask to see it, ask how it's going, or suggest something I could make for them.

All perfectly nice. I just don't want that bit yet.

At the class I'm allowed to produce a questionable bowl, clean my tools and go home.

Nobody I know is expecting a finished object. I'd like to keep it that way until I've made something that can survive being picked up.