My grandma's line. The hard part is knowing how much you've had: in England, what people say they drink adds up to only 40 to 60% of the alcohol sold. Marcus, Luis and Priya each want an honest count.

Cutting back to ten a week. Tonight he's lost count. After sunset the app turns dark by itself.

On his wrist, his watch face, his lock screen and his home screen, the count is already there.

Twelve drinks in one night gets one calm heads-up and the signs of alcohol poisoning. Past his weekly line, his own words and a minute to breathe. No lecture.

Quitting cigarettes. Every other app sent him back to day zero.

No calories, no target. She wants to know when the snacks land.

Hours spent clearing it, grams, money. Every figure opens to its working and names its source. None of it comes with a verdict.

A beer is a beer and a cigarette is a cigarette. Six beers fold into a six-pack, twenty cigarettes into a pack, eight slices into a pie. The units and the currency are yours to set.

No account, no cloud, no analytics. A discreet icon if you want one, and an export that shows what's in it before it goes.

On Apple's new foldable the tabs and status move to the outer edge. Closed, it's the phone app. Open, Today sits beside the week.

Asked how many hot dogs he eats a day, he guesses seven. The log says ten.