About

Thursday, I think.

The mushrooms have started growing again. I wasn't expecting them until next week, but they've never shown much interest in my schedule. I spent most of the morning watching them, which is apparently not a productive use of one's time. I made a note to ask who decides these things.

At eleven, the little machine on the kitchen table began working again. I'd spent three days repairing it, despite being told a replacement would cost less. This was true, but entirely beside the point. It made a brief noise, blinked twice and then stopped. I considered this progress.

Shortly afterwards, someone from the Office of Productive Activity rang to ask what I'd accomplished. I mentioned the machine. He asked whether it had any commercial potential. I said it might, once I'd worked out what it did. He seemed satisfied. I considered pointing out that it was my time, but instead apologised for not having more to report. He reminded me that participation was entirely voluntary and said he'd call again on Monday.

By the afternoon I'd taken the machine apart again. I'd managed to get it responding to light, which raised the question of whether it could be said to see anything. I spent some time considering this before realising I'd been staring at the same circuit board for nearly an hour. The mushrooms, meanwhile, had made considerable progress, having never thought to ask permission.

In the evening I went through some photographs I'd taken a few weeks earlier. Most were unremarkable. One was of a perfectly ordinary street, and for reasons I couldn't explain, I kept returning to it. There was nothing happening in the photograph. Perhaps that was what I liked about it.