He put his car keys on the kitchen table, his bag down by the side. They hadn’t been there that long and already he was establishing patterns of behaviour, getting used to the new routine. He had read somewhere that human beings were predisposed to find routine in everything. He remembered an old crime novel he had read, years ago, in which a man left his family and job and went to another city to set up a new life. When the private detective found him, he had established a new family and a new life. Routine had taken over. He shook his head, wondered why his mind had thought of that, opened the fridge door. There were half a dozen bottles of beer on their sides. Routine dictated that he would take one, sit down and use it to help him to dial out work, dial in the family. Except it was very late and the rest of the family were in bed. He closed the fridge door, made his way upstairs. He thought of having a shower, decided against it.
