But even if one was just a humble old lady in a quiet little English village like this, there were small consolations. For instance, she thought as she climbed back up the stairs, she could perch here by the bedroom window with her bottle of sherry and her Sudoku puzzle on her knee, and watch the moonlit streets. In these quiet hours there were many things she could contemplate and allow to wander through her mind. Her childhood in the north London suburbs; the family holidays in rugged, mountainous Scotland; those heartbreaking months of being sent away to live with strangers during the Blitz; and her husband’s absolutely massive, colossal wanger. Thick as a milk bottle and as long as his foot. Amazing to behold. It was a wonder he could get about, she had often thought. God, she missed that thing. ‘HMS Dreadnought’, he used to call it. That was a bit of a turn-off, of course. And the way he used to show off, using it to change channels on the television, or break empty the bottles of stout on the kitchen counter when he was one over the eight.
