Fishy-Wishy had been golden once, but age and a tumour at the base of his tail fin had rendered him colourless, except for an ugly red patch of scaleless skin. Lois stared at him. “You’re a survivor, F. Wishy,” she said. “A lesson to us all.” Wiser than the vet, nature had taken pity on the fish and cured the tumour without aid. “No such luck for Cyril,” Lois muttered. “Perhaps he’d have done better to go easy on the tablets.” Tablets for indigestion. A new box opened by Sharon that very afternoon. Something that Mrs. Carr kept just for her favourites. Lois wrote a memo to herself. Shop: ask about tablets. She picked up her mug of coffee awkwardly and it slipped from her hand, spreading scalding liquid over her desk and on to her legs. “Bloody hell!” She gasped, jumped up and ran to the kitchen for help. Gran was not around, so she grabbed cloths and a kitchen roll and ran back. Luckily, only her memo pad was soaked, and she threw it quickly into the bin. The skin on her thighs was beginning to sting, and when she had finished mopping up she rushed upstairs for the burn cream.
