Her Victory

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‘What are you trying to climb into the freezer for?’ George wanted to know.

A plastic orange gift-cannon of the Napoleonic type fell out of the cereal box and pointed its muzzle at his forehead. Such an omen, from behind a barricade of cornflakes, indicated the sort of week coming up that he could well do without. When he glanced at rain clouds forming beyond the half-steamed window there was no mistaking the picture of Monday morning. Yet even that was an advantage, because his habit was to leave the house earlier than on other days. He might therefore have thought it the best time of the week if he hadn’t, on coming downstairs, seen his wife Pam wearing a bright green blouse, a dull beige cardigan which she had knitted the previous winter, and a crimson skirt from the New Year’s sales. Such colours spun against his retina like a mad woman’s rainbow.

‘Well, what for, then? The bloody freezer?’

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