The Joys of Cooking

The rain has returned after a few weeks of fine weather. It's because of the school holidays. I remember when I was young, it always started raining as soon as the school holidays started, and it kept raining until we went back to school in September. We'd sit in our classrooms and look out at the clear blue skies. But then, I also remember that it was always sunny during the school holidays, much sunnier than the summers we get now. I remember a hot air balloon rising out of a lake as well, but that's neither here nor there.

My aunt Bridget loves having the house to herself. On one Saturday afternoon, the kids were all out, either at sporting events or visiting friends or climbing mountains in other countries. Her husband, Harry, had gone on a fishing trip with some friends. They were hoping to catch a legendary fish, or at least to encounter something they could stretch into a good story. They'd almost certainly have to rely on encountering something they'd have to stretch to breaking point, because according to the tales told about the fish, it was over a hundred years old and it had a moustache.

She appreciated the silence of the house after they had all gone. The cat sat on the mat outside the back door. Bridget sat on a garden chair and purred contentedly as she thought about cooking the dinner. She enjoys cooking good food every bit as much as she enjoys eating it, and she enjoys thinking about cooking as much as she enjoys cooking. The cat's dinner came out of a tin, but he didn't seem to mind. He also enjoyed preparing his meals as much as he enjoyed eating, but this only applied to the dinners he killed. Bridget had never killed her own dinner and she always tried to avoid thoughts about where meat came from.

She went inside to start preparing the meal. She couldn't think of anything more relaxing than cooking when she had the house to herself, so she was annoyed when the doorbell rang, and she was even more annoyed when she opened the door and saw her sister, Elaine. Bridget knew that Elaine would end up staying for dinner, and that she'd keep talking while Bridget was cooking, and only Elaine would enjoy the meal. Before heading for home, sometime around midnight, she'd say, "I really enjoyed myself and that was an amazing chicken pie." And Bridget would have to smile and say 'You're welcome' when she really wanted to say 'I might have enjoyed the meal if you had been able to stop talking about your hair for a few minutes'.

As expected, Elaine never stopped talking. Bridget can easily stop listening, but it was still annoying to have the sound of her sister's voice droning on in the background while she was trying to cook. But she thought of a way to restore the peace and quiet for a while. She didn't have any cream for the apple tart they'd be having for dessert, so she asked Elaine to walk into town and get some cream at the shop.

Bridget appreciated the silence more than ever after Elaine left to get the cream. The gentle humming of the oven was as relaxing as the sound of waves on an isolated beach. But the silence lost its calming effect when it went on for too long. The dinner was nearly ready and Elaine hadn't returned from the shop. Bridget went outside to look down the road towards the town, and she saw her sister outside their neighbour's house. Elaine had never made it to the shop. She'd been talking to Bridget's neighbour, Sean, all this time. In truth, she hadn't done much of the talking. He'd been telling her about a book he'd been reading, '101 Things to do with Toast', and he'd still only reached number thirty-seven. He was up to number forty-five by the time Bridget finally managed to drag Elaine away. If they'd left at number forty they might have saved the dinner, but even before they had reached the front door of the house they got the smell of burn. The water had boiled off the potatoes, and the pastry on top of the chicken pie was black. Bridget was too angry to say anything.

Elaine said, "Why don't we try that new fast-food place in town."

"That's your response to the demise of my dinner? It would be like holding the funeral of a nun in a lap-dancing club."

"It doesn't matter. I wouldn't want to go there if you're planning a funeral for your dinner."

"I'm not planning anything."

"Let's go to a proper restaurant so."

"No."

"Don't sulk. It's only a dinner."

"I'm not sulking," Bridget said. She hated being told not to sulk, especially when she was sulking.

"Look, I'll cook something with whatever I find in the fridge."

"But..."

"No 'buts'. You go off to the shop to get the cream and I'll start work on the dinner."

Bridget felt she needed a relaxing walk to the shop, so she agreed to let Elaine cook. She walked quickly past Sean's house in case he started telling her about toast. With that hurdle out of the way she did her best to relax, but she couldn't stop thinking about her peaceful afternoon and her dinner, both of which had been ruined by Elaine, who was probably busy ruining the innocent items of food she found in the fridge.

Elaine made an outstanding lasagne with the food she found in the fridge. For Bridget, this was worse than the barely edible mess she'd been expecting. Her sister was an excellent cook, which was annoying, and Elaine irritated Bridget even further by constantly pointing out how much she hated cooking.

Bridget fought hard against enjoying the meal, but the power of good food was too strong. She started to relax again, and she was nearly back to her old self when they were eating the apple tart and cream. But things took a turn for the worse when Harry and his friends arrived back with the fish they'd be having for dinner. They kept pointing out that they had killed it themselves. People had been trying to kill this fish for hundreds of years, they said, and they had finally succeeded in catching it. This made them heroes.

Bridget was appalled by the fish. It was anything but legendary. Harry insisted that it had a bit of a moustache. Bridget had a close look at it, and she couldn't deny that it did have something resembling a moustache, but this only made the thing more reprehensible in her eyes. She dreaded the thought of cooking it for Harry and his drunk friends.

But she was rescued by Elaine, who said, "This fish would be perfect as part of the seventeenth way to use toast."

She couldn't resist trying out this recipe. Bridget poured herself a glass of wine, sat at the kitchen table and breathed an audible sigh of relief as her sister got out the frying pan and the toaster. Elaine had to admit that she enjoyed cooking, especially when it involved toast. Bridget had to admit that she enjoyed talking about the garden and drinking wine while other people cooked, and that she was glad her sister had paid a visit. Harry and his friends had to admit that there was nothing legendary about the fish they brought home, but they steadfastly refused to make any such admission. The excellence of the meal made with the fish was evidence of its legendary status, they said. In truth, the quality of the meal owed more to the toast than to the fish.

The moose's head over the fireplace doesn't trust my memories of past summers. He takes everything I say with a pinch of salt. I've become accustomed to the fact that he questions my mental acumen, and I try to use his superior intellect whenever I can. A few days ago, a brain surgeon called to the house. He asked me if I wanted any work done. I said I'd never considered having anything done to my brain before. He looked closely at my face and he told me I should definitely consider it, and that I might even need some work done before I start considering it, if I wanted to be able to consider it properly. I consulted the moose's head on this matter. The expression on his face told me that the brain surgery wouldn't be a good idea. I don't know why so many people assume that I need something done to my brain. Or else they believe that something's already been done to it, and that it can't be reversed.

The joy of an ill-advised venture

I think the garden gnomes have formed their own cult. As the sun set on the summer solstice they were gathered in a circle in the orchard, all of them wearing white robes. On the following morning I found one of them in a wicker basket in the shed. He was dressed as a jester. The door was locked, so I've no idea how they got him into the shed. Their behaviour is disconcerting, but it could be worse. One of our neighbours has gnomes who took their clothes off and danced around a rockery at dawn.

My cousin Rachel once got a part-time job delivering bread for a baker. In a small van she'd take the bread to the local shops and restaurants, and when these deliveries had been completed she'd go to the houses of individual customers. Some of them would buy just a single loaf of bread at a time, but the baker still offered them free delivery. Rachel always enjoyed visiting these people. They looked forward to her visits as well. On sunny days they'd come outside whenever they heard her van approaching, and they'd have a chat in the garden. One man always sent his remote-controlled penguin out to collect the bread, but he'd still talk to her from a window.

After delivering bread to a man called Stephen, her next stop would be at the house of his sister, Fiona. They used Rachel to deliver insults to each other. For instance, Stephen once told Rachel to ask his sister if anyone else had asked her if her face was part of a witch's costume. Fiona responded to this by telling Rachel to ask Stephen if he'd done anything to diminish the aura around him, an aura that was fed by the smell from his clothes. It was so well-developed that in the right light you could see it practising its golf swing.

Rachel found out that the insults she delivered were the only communication between the two siblings. They'd avoided each other ever since the failure of a restaurant they set up together. Chess was the theme of this restaurant. There were thirty-two black tables and thirty-two white ones. At some tables, the plates and cutlery were black, and at others they were white. You and your companions could be asked to move to another table by one of the people playing chess. You wouldn't have to move far if you were a pawn, but the diners at a pawn table would be lucky to make it as far as dessert without being removed from the restaurant. You'd have to pay extra to sit at a king's table. The business failed because they kept throwing people out. On some occasions, only a few pieces would be left on the board at the end of the evening.

Stephen and Fiona stopped talking to each other after they closed down the restaurant. Rachel tried to convince them to sort out their differences, but they both insisted that there was no animosity between them. Every time they got together they ended up doing something stupid. They'd undertake a venture that would end in disaster, like the restaurant. If they didn't communicate solely through the medium of insults they'd end up hating each other. Rachel suggested getting the ill-advised venture out of the way as soon as they meet up. It could be something that wouldn't do too much harm when it ends in disaster, like a travelling theatre company. The stage would be a cart and the company would travel from place to place with the help of a donkey, so they could never go too far away from home.

Stephen and Fiona liked this idea, so they agreed to meet and set up the theatre company. Their company consisted of three members: themselves and the donkey. All three of them made important contributions to the performances of their plays, but the donkey took a back seat during the writing process. He'd happily have taken a back seat during the travelling as well, but they wouldn't have travelled at all if he had. This would have been only slightly less than the distance they travelled with the donkey up front.

They were expecting their theatre company to end in disaster, but it led to their greatest success. A film producer saw their play about the potato famine. With a few minor adjustments it was adapted into a Hollywood film, a romantic comedy about the perils of blind dates. The producer thought it was certain to succeed because he'd just adapted a play about the perils of blind dates, turning it into a film about the potato film. This film was a complete disaster. He was a firm believer in the idea that you could turn a disaster into a success by doing everything backwards.

In this instance, he was right. Stephen and Fiona made a fortune from the film, and they used the money to fund many ill-advised ventures, like their detective agency that would rely heavily on the intuition of a cocker spaniel, or their mobile bookshop that wasn't very mobile because it was on the back of a cart pulled by the donkey. Wasting all that money together was a hugely enjoyable experience, and they were grateful to Rachel for making it possible. They offered her a job in their wedding dress recycling centre.

The moose's head over the fireplace is paying more attention to the World Cup now. It's starting to get interesting, if you have an interest in these things. The wife's aunt is protesting against all the sport on TV by only talking about toast until the end of the World Cup. She has no interest in sport, but I don't know what she's getting upset about because she has no interest in television either. I thought it would be nice to get a break from her theories about why elephants should be red or why you shouldn't point at trees, but I'm starting to miss hearing about these things. She has surprisingly little of interest to say about toast.

The Book Club

The fine summer weather is welcome, but the sun can make people act strangely. The wife's aunt is talking to the apple trees, although this sort of behaviour is relatively normal for her. One of our neighbours has come to believe that he's a river. He refuses to sleep at night because he's afraid of poachers taking his salmon.

My uncle Ben once joined a book club despite having little interest in books, and less interest in reading. The club was organised by one of his neighbours, a man called William who owned an old manor house near where Ben lived. William invited Ben to join the book club when they met in the local shop. William thought it would be a good way for him to get to know the neighbours, and to put his personal library to greater use. Ben agreed to join because he wanted to have a look around William's house.

On a Saturday afternoon, Ben went to the first meeting of the club with a friend of his called Eugene, who had also been asked to join the club. William greeted them at the front door. They were the first to arrive, and while they were waiting for the others William showed them around some of the rooms on the ground floor. He told them about his ancestors depicted in the portraits in the hall. They were fascinated by his great-grandfather, who devoted most of his life to perfecting his techniques for brewing compost. In the drawing room he poured them some wine. As each member of the club arrived in the room they were given a glass. When they had all arrived, William topped up their glasses before leading them to his library to begin their meeting.

The first book they'd be reading would be the memoirs of William's great-grandfather. There were more than enough copies of the book for everyone in the club. William had hundreds of copies of unsold books written by his ancestors. Ben would have joined a book club years earlier if he'd known they'd be drinking wine and reading books in which compost features prominently. William spent most of the first meeting telling them about his great-grandfather's life. To Ben's surprise, some of the club's members had no interest in compost. Nancy started knitting during the meeting.

Ben had plenty to say about the book when the club convened for their second meeting. William was delighted to hear that it was one of the best books Ben had ever read. Eugene had plenty to say as well, but the rest of the group didn't share their enthusiasm.

Nancy had nothing to say. She just kept knitting. Maurice started mumbling something about the book, but he soon digressed to tell them about his personal problems, and he broke down in tears. He said something about his wife leaving him and his dog howling at the moon, or his dog leaving him and his wife howling at the moon. He kept rambling on about his life. Ben paid no attention to this because it didn't seem to bear any relation to compost, but the rest of the group were fascinated by it.

At the end of the meeting, William said they'd continue discussing the book next week, seeing as they still had so much to talk about. Ben was hoping that they'd focus on the book again at that next meeting, but as soon as it began, Maurice picked up where he'd left off on the previous week. When he finished telling them about his troubles, other people started talking about their lives. Even Eugene told the group about his unrequited love for a woman who reads the news on a local radio station. The book club was turning into a self-help group. Ben had been hoping that if it was going to morph into anything it would be an organisation devoted to compost, or a forum for troubles encountered while raising chickens. He had no intention of contributing to a self-help group, but he kept going to the meetings for the free wine. He did occasionally say something, but only to convince people that he wasn't just there for the wine.

Three months after the first meeting, Eugene came to see Ben one day, and he seemed troubled. He told Ben that Nancy had knitted her own book, and that this book was a record of the stories told in the book club. Astonishingly, bits of it were actually legible. People would be able to read about all the embarrassing secrets divulged during their meetings, and there was even a possibility that this book might be featured on TV. Nancy was displaying her book at a crafts fair, and this fair was being featured on a TV programme that was being filmed later that day and would be broadcast on the following evening. The members of the book club were hoping to steal the book before Nancy took it to the crafts fair.

Ben agreed to help, but only because he thought there was a chance of free wine. As it turned out, there was no wine, but he enjoyed himself anyway. He knew he had nothing to worry about, and he felt some satisfaction in seeing how worried the others were about the airing of their secrets. He thought they were getting their just rewards for the way they abused the book club, and he was delighted when they failed to steal Nancy's knitted book.

But Ben had said much more to the group than he thought he had. A few glasses of wine will make him do things he doesn't know he's doing. Nancy's book was featured on the TV show, and she chose to read extracts from the chapter on Ben to illustrate the contents of the book. She had portrayed him as someone who had been given an interest in compost to replace the emotional life he'd lost, or had never acquired in the first place. She read the story of the time Ben spent a weekend trying to catch a cheetah in his garden. He went to great effort and expense in his pursuit of the creature, but it turned out to be a Labrador. She sensationalised her account of Ben's adventures, adding in a fictional love story that you'd expect to find in a tabloid newspaper, and certainly not in a book that had been knitted.

Despite the embarrassment Ben suffered, and the trouble he had explaining the love story to his wife, he was glad he joined the book club because he had some outstanding compost that year. He went to the next meeting of the club, and to his delight, they returned to a discussion of the book and no one said a word about their personal lives. Nancy's constant knitting made them keep their guards up.

The moose's head over the fireplace has been spending a lot of time staring at a painting on the wall. We change the paintings on a regular basis to keep him entertained. There have been too many dull matches in the World Cup so far to keep his mind occupied. The latest painting is of a double-decker bus. Some of the passengers look happy and some of them look sad. It's difficult to tell how the driver is feeling because he's a penguin, which would be a reason to look sad if you were a passenger. Or worried. If I was on a bus and I realised that the driver was a penguin I'd be worried.

Garden Rock

Summer is blossoming. The hurling and football championships are well underway and we're on the eve of another World Cup. The sun is shining in all of my memories of past World Cups. Without the Irish team it's never going to be as exciting as the glory days of Italy in 1990, but I'm still looking forward to it. I've decided to support the Ivory Coast because their national flag is the Irish flag backwards. The wife's uncle says it's a good idea to support the inverse of the thing you have a natural affinity for. It's what made so many of his friends turn to God.

My cousin Albert formed a band with his friends, George and Neil. They had very different tastes in music, but they were able to put their musical differences aside for the sake of a higher goal: to attract women. The one major obstacle preventing them from achieving their goal was that none of them had the confidence to be the front man. If they had this confidence they wouldn't have needed a band to achieve their goal. Albert was on drums, Neil played guitar and George tried to do something barely audible with the bass. They needed a lead singer. They thought it was much more important to find someone with the right attitude rather than the best singer, and this is why they hired Wayne. They'd known him since their school days. He always had an abundance of attitude. In almost all walks of life it would have been the wrong attitude. It got him suspended from school and fired from jobs on a regular basis. He abhorred the very concept of authority, unless he got to tell people what to do. It was inevitable that he'd clash with teachers and bosses, especially the bosses who took great delight in making him clean up messes made by people who'd been drinking for most of the day and had then eaten something they wouldn't give to a dog if they could see it when they were sober. Wayne worked in the places that served food not fit for a dog, but he never lasted long in any job.

He agreed to join the band, as long as he got to write his own lyrics. Albert, George and Neil agreed because they believed that lyrics were even less important than having a lead singer who could sing. The lyrics he came up with were terrible, but they conveyed the right attitude. What he lacked in talent, he made up for in ego. He seemed to regard himself as a cross between Bono and Stephen Hawking, and this wasn't just when he was incapacitated by drink. He always sounded as if he was preaching some great truth, even in his songs about ice cubes or paper.

The band's first gig was in a pub. They excelled at avoiding the bottles thrown at them, but they were only partially successful in their aim of attracting women. A middle-aged woman called Hazel came up to them after the gig and she asked them to play for an audience in her garden. Wayne agreed without consulting the rest of the band. And so they played their second gig on the following afternoon in Hazel's garden, before an audience of Hazel and her friends. It was a nice setting on a nice summer day with nice people, but Albert, George and Neil didn't want nice. They wanted 'euphoric' and 'grandiose' and 'stupid'.

Albert was surprised to find that Hazel and her friends enjoyed the songs, despite the fact that they were actually paying attention to the lyrics. Obviously they'd never been shown how to use a rock song. Hazel would discuss the lyrics with Wayne at the end of each song. She listened attentively to all of his theories on war, ice cubes and clouds, and he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say about her hobbies, which included badminton and tea. His enjoyment of the gig probably stemmed from the fact that the audience were so appreciative. He readily agreed to do a second gig. He made no effort to consult his band mates on this. He acted as if it was his band, and the musicians were his disciples.

It took another seven gigs in the garden before Albert, George and Neil came to the conclusion that Wayne wasn't the right singer for the band. When they broke the news to him they put it down to musical differences. He said he'd been thinking of going solo anyway. They suspected that he was lying when he told them he'd been offered a record deal as a solo artist. They knew he was dreaming when he spoke of the fame and wealth that were in his reach.

Without Wayne, the band failed to fulfil its purpose. Albert, George and Neil were afraid that Wayne really would become a successful solo artist and they'd spend the rest of their lives regretting their decision to fire him. They didn't need to worry about this. He abandoned his music career shortly after Albert, George and Neil disbanded the band, but he was considerably more successful in the area of attracting women. The first Albert learnt of this was when he got an invitation to the wedding of Wayne and Hazel. She was old enough to be his mother, and his mother was only barely old enough to be his mother. The band re-united for one final performance at the wedding. They played some of Wayne's songs at the reception. After their performance, Albert, George and Neil finally found some success in their goal of attracting women, but only by pretending to be disciples of Wayne.

The moose's head over the fireplace is looking forward to the World Cup as well. He's decided to support Honduras. Most of my friends and neighbours are supporting countries they know very little about because of the long list of countries they despise. One of the neighbours hates Germany because when he was on holiday there with his girlfriend he fell into a pond. She took photos and made sure that all of his friends and family saw him emerging from the water, covered in what could best be described as slime. He could blame himself for not tying his shoelaces, and he could attach some blame to his girlfriend for taking the photos, but it's easier to blame Germany. If he blames his girlfriend for anything she'll become as intimidating as Germany in the 1930s.

The Headlines

It's nice to sit at the patio table and enjoy these long evenings. On some days it's even possible to eat outside. You could almost convince yourself you're in a different country. The garden gnomes are wearing sombreros, but that's a bit optimistic.

My aunt Audrey meets a friend of hers called Molly for coffee at least once a week. Audrey always looks forward to hearing her friend's latest news and Molly looks forward to telling it. Some news bulletins last for hours. Molly comes up with headlines like 'There's an ostrich in my garden', or 'I've been asked to demonstrate a hovercraft at a regatta'. When Audrey heard the headline 'One of my neighbours asked me to help him write his memoirs' she didn't take much notice of it because it came right after a report about being held hostage in a bank robbery that went wrong, but the memoir story became more interesting with each update in subsequent bulletins. This help involved accompanying her neighbour, whose name was Gordon, on visits to churches in the middle of the night, or posing as German tourists at a book launch.

Audrey was suspicious of Gordon. Molly didn't see anything unusual about the help she was providing because it was all just part of the roller coaster of her life, but Audrey was concerned about her friend. She tried to think of a way of making sure that Molly was okay.

While these thoughts were uppermost on her mind, she had to go to a shop one evening to get some biscuits and mustard. She really only needed the mustard, but she thought there was something odd about going into a shop and only buying mustard. If she had put more thought into it she would have realised that there was nothing odd about it at all -- people need mustard all the time, though perhaps not as often as they need bread or milk. But she ended up with mustard and a packet of chocolate biscuits, so her subconscious might well have been hindering further thought.

The shop was owned by a man called Roger, who was lighting his pipe when Audrey was there. It was the sort of shop where you could get away with smoking a pipe, one of a dying breed of shops where you might find eight different types of mustard but no cornflakes, where you could order a pint of Guinness when you went to get your morning paper, though your morning paper might be a week old.

As Audrey was paying for the mustard and biscuits, Roger said to her, "I heard you were concerned about your friend who's helping a neighbour write his memoirs."

"How did you hear about that?"

"Word gets around. It travels. And I have a habit of meeting words when they're on their travels, even the ones who move furtively at night. I can help ease your concerns. Possibly. I might end up making you even more concerned. I can find out information about the neighbour."

"How?"

"I can't say how. You're better off not knowing that. You might be better off not knowing about the neighbour as well. It's up to you."

"I'd definitely like to know more about Gordon."

"Come back tomorrow and I'll have something for you."

When Audrey returned on the following day, Roger had a fifty-page report about Gordon's past. She took it home and read it. If it was accurate, then Gordon had lived an extraordinary life. After the failure of his career as an Antarctic explorer he spent a week as the favourite photographer of celebrities in India. Audrey felt that there was nothing to be concerned about. It seemed as if Gordon and Molly had a lot in common.

A few days later, Audrey found herself in urgent need of a tulip, so she went to the nearest florist. As she was paying for the flower, Rita, the woman behind the counter, said, "I hear you got Roger to find out about the man your friend is helping."

"How did you hear about that?"

"A florist hears lots of things. Sometimes no one comes in here for hours and I can hear the flowers talk. If you can develop an ability to hear the flowers then you can hear lots of things."

"Well you're right. I did get Roger to find out about Gordon's past."

"Do you want to know how he got the information?"

"I'm not sure I do, but I'm sure I don't want to remain in the dark."

"He broke into your friend's house when she was out helping her neighbour and he made a report from her notes on the memoirs."

"Why would he go to such lengths just to provide an occasional customer with information on the neighbour of a friend?"

"Because the next time you need information about someone you'll go to him. And you'll almost certainly buy something when you're in the shop. He'd go to almost any lengths just to sell someone something they don't need."

Audrey was horrified at the thought that she might have been responsible for Roger breaking into her friend's house. She had to find out if it was true, to put her mind at rest. But the only person who could help her was Molly. After much deliberation, she decided to tell Molly everything.

Before the headlines at their next meeting, Audrey told the story of Roger and the information he provided. Molly was eager to find out if he had really broken into her house, so she told Audrey to go back to the shop and ask him to find out more information about Gordon's stint at a photographer. They'd follow him after he left the shop in the evening and see where he went to get this information.

Audrey went back to the shop that evening, and she bought a packet of chocolate biscuits, even though she didn't need them. Before she had a chance to ask Roger for more information, he said, "I hear you've been listening to Rita's stories about my methods for getting information."

"How did you... Yes. I have."

"You can't believe a word she says. She's completely insane. It's the flowers. Spend your days with nothing but flowers for company and you'll go mad. After she leaves work in the evenings she goes to a pond and has conversations with her reflection in the water. 'Hello Rita,' she'll say. 'Ah Rita, it's so nice to see you. How are you?' 'I'm doing very well, Rita. How are you?' 'Very well indeed. Thanks for asking. Are you still thinking of buying that tank?'"

Audrey left without asking Roger for more information. Molly was waiting in a car nearby. They had planned on following Roger, but when Molly heard what Roger had said, she suggested following Rita instead to see if she went to the pond.

So they went to the florist, and they parked at the other side of the street. After Rita closed the shop in the evening she got into her car and drove away. Molly drove after her. Rita stopped outside a house two miles away, and she went inside. Molly parked nearby.

"Looks just like someone going home from work," Audrey said. "I wouldn't think there's much chance of her going to a pond to talk to herself."

"Let's just wait and see."

They had to wait for half an hour for something to happen, and it was even more extraordinary than Rita having a conversation with her reflection. Roger arrived in his car. He parked in the driveway and he went inside. He looked just like someone coming home from work as well. Nearly an hour later, both he and Rita went out into the garden. While she watered some plants with a watering can, he watered the lawn with a hose.

"They look just like a married couple to me," Audrey said.

"I know. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. I've heard about the domestic lives of married couples. I've read about it in books and seen it on TV in documentaries, but I've never seen this sort of thing before. I could watch them for hours."

She would have watched them for hours if Audrey hadn't insisted on going home, but Molly returned on the following evening to spy on them again. For the next few weeks, all of her news bulletins were filled with stories about Roger and Rita. Headlines like 'Rita has a cat called Mr. Jingle' didn't have the same impact as past headlines, like 'I fell off a train'. The news bulletins lost all appeal for Audrey, but she only had to wait a few weeks before Molly got bored of watching Roger and Rita, and she was able to come up with headlines like 'A spotlight keeps following me when I leave my house at night'."

The moose's head over the fireplace enjoys the peace of a summer evening and the silence of a night. Nights weren't always this silent. One of our neighbours often played the bagpipes after midnight, and we could hear him even though he lived over a mile away. But he gave up the bagpipes when he started playing a cello made out of jelly. This doesn't make as much noise as the bagpipes.