These are the entries I keep returning to. The results are mostly forgotten; the small events around them have stayed remarkably clear.
Rain tapped at the kitchen window while we laid dominoes in a chain that gradually bent around the fruit bowl. We had promised ourselves only one round before bed, so everyone played with exaggerated care. The youngest person at the table insisted that a gap between two tiles looked untidy and straightened the whole chain before taking a turn. We finished, put the pieces away, and discovered we had spent longer arranging the game than playing it.
Our dots-and-boxes game began with an overconfident grid covering almost an entire sheet of paper. Halfway through, we realized we had built ourselves quite a commitment. We made tea, sharpened the pencil, and carried on adding lines and claiming boxes. The finished sheet has tiny initials, one enormous doodled cat, and a note in the corner: “Next time, fewer dots.” It now lives in the paper-games folder, where it provides excellent evidence whenever someone proposes a larger grid.
We found an old tally page tucked into the card box, covered in neat columns that nobody had added up. There were biscuit crumbs in the fold and a pencilled shopping reminder at the bottom. We tried to reconstruct which evening it belonged to and disagreed on every detail except the biscuits. Instead of finishing the arithmetic, we turned the page over and used the blank side for a fresh game. I rather like that the old winner is still a mystery.