By the time he arrived home it was five-twenty. He wolfed down a sandwich, had a quick shower and dressed in the evening suit he’d hired. He surveyed himself in the mirror. Evening suits for men were surely invented by women, to stop men from turning up to formal occasions in their jeans or footy shorts. But what man really felt comfortable in this get-up? He looked like a waiter with his satin waistcoat and bow tie, as if he should glide around with a tray and a supercilious smile, filling up glasses and offering platters of steamed crab’s claw with octopus jus.
He entertained himself with this vision as he pulled on his shoes and socks – Nancy and Wayne, his most disliked in-laws, tucking into the crab claws laced with arsenic and falling down in a heap on the floor, writhing and clutch
