Nothing here is a repair you have to carry out. Every line is one sentence to say, and then somebody else does the work. Pick it up at any point: none of it has to be read in advance.
You will meet it. It looks alarming and it is written for somebody else. Roughly this shape:
Select it. Copy it. Paste it into Claude Code, the one on your Mac. Write “this happened”. That is the entire procedure. You never have to understand the message, and you never have to work out which part matters.
Part 3 draws four failures on screen. These are the other four. Left column is what you see, right column is what you do.
If what you see does not match what Claude Code said you would see: stop. Say exactly what is on the screen. Click nothing else until it matches, or until it explains why the difference is fine. It catches a step going wrong, and it catches Claude Code being wrong.
The first is the most useful habit in the workshop. The second is the only move that is always wrong.
Say it out loud to Claude Code, mid-flow, and carry on. You write nothing. It builds the entry from what was on screen: what you were doing, what you expected against what happened, whether you got past it, and the exact command and error. How it felt is yours, and optional.
Three tags, no others. The third keeps this a designer’s notebook, not an incident log.
The methodology is the site. You are the inspector. A site diary records what the site did, and it is never a record of the diarist’s shortcomings. Every entry is raised against the playbook, the way an RFI is raised against the designer. Where that comparison stops: an RFI holds the work up until somebody answers it, and a diary entry holds nothing up at all.
Eight to fifteen entries across the whole series is the expected number. Twelve is the instrument working. Zero would mean the habit did not take, not that the playbook was perfect.
Never reword a command so a check does not notice it. If you find yourself about to, stop and say so out loud instead. That single behaviour is what turns a guarded project into an unguarded one, and it always feels reasonable at the time.
Most stuck moments are a lost position, not a hard problem. Ask where you are standing before you ask for a fix.
A round button, red shading into navy, with a speech balloon on it, sits in the corner of every deck page. It opens a chat with Ship It Claude, who answers questions about the decks. Inside that panel, “Rather ask Munim?” sends your note to Munim instead. No question is too small for either.