Teaching N to poach an egg, I put too little water in. She notices the yolk is still bright yellow, so I tip the pan slightly: we look as the simmer blinds it until it is as pale as the rest, the water now scummy. I slide it onto her toast. It is still dull until she punctures it. That was the day when, chasing a pen top, I found my old glasses, the good ones, behind my desk, cobwebbed, but, washed, clear as air. Then N held the large scissors and called me over, saying, ‘cut this’. She pointed to her long brown hair, which flows on, past her shoulders and down, and could never be cut by me with my blundering thumbs. But she meant the plastic tag on her collar, which I tug off, not needing the scissors at all.