Leaving it
Most readings can't be checked and don't need to be. The neighbour who didn't wave. The stranger's look. The colleague on another floor who seemed short in the corridor. For those, the method is to leave it, and leaving it is a skill.
Say the sentence. "Probably their day." Not as a mantra, as a plain probability. Chapter 5 is the reason it's probably true. Most behaviour is produced by the situation the person is in, and you can't see the situation, and the one you can see, which is you, is the least likely candidate for a stranger's face.
Put it down where you found it. The neighbour didn't wave at ten past six on the pavement. That's where it stays. It doesn't come in the house. The test of whether you've left it is whether it's still there at dinner, and if it is, write the two columns and then leave it.
Take the evening back. What you'd have done with the evening if the reading hadn't arrived, do that. The reading gets its power from the hours you give it, and the hours were yours.
Notice what leaving isn't. It isn't deciding they were wrong to be short. It isn't deciding you were right to be hurt. It isn't a conclusion at all. It's declining to draw one, on the grounds that you haven't got the information and can't get it and don't need it. That's not avoidance. It's accuracy about what you know, which is that a person made a face on a pavement.
Practise on strangers first. The neighbour and the stranger are the easiest readings to leave, because there's nothing to check and nothing at stake, and a fortnight of leaving those builds the skill for the ones that matter. Every look on a pavement that stays on the pavement is a rehearsal for the quiet at dinner.
Expect it to feel like negligence. For a fortnight, leaving a reading unchecked will feel like leaving a tap running. That's the reading's claim to be insurance, and chapter 8 is about why it isn't. The feeling passes when the third column on your list starts filling up with "nothing to do with me" and you begin to believe your own evidence.