Perhaps it was the panes that finally irked him or maybe he grew disenchanted.

        Becky's strokes accrued no volume as such but Becky took her time nonetheless.

        One Friday evening Mick's coat reeked of more than the usual smell of cigarette smoke he picked up of a Friday lunchtime.  Indeed, as Pamela kissed him hello, the area around his collar exuded the scent of a pungent and unfamiliar perfume.

        Pamela pulled out a green-tinged ball of tissue, a receipt from Waterstones and a screwed up cafe napkin.  She dropped them on the kitchen floor and loaded the machine, feeding it a white/blue tablet and pouring a capful of cream softener into the thirsty plastic drawer.
        She stooped to retrieve the previously discarded contents of Mike's pockets as the orange light on the machine flickered awake.  The tissue and receipt were dropped into the utility room's swing-bin; the napkin was un-crumpled by her dextrous fingers, unfolding like a blossoming origami carnation.  On it was scrawled the following legend, in round and womanly handwriting, the big pregnant 'O' certainly not scored by Mick's own rushed hand:
        "Tomorrow lunchtime,
        be there or be out of luck. O."

        "Come on, Pam. I've had such a bad day today.  Look at the time I got in tonight.  I'm tired.  I just want to go to sleep."

        Perchance to dream.