Doris was up bright and early the following morning. I hadn’t even taken a shower after my run and she appeared at my backdoor, dressed for the day in a baggy, purple top over black joggers, her hair tied back and held away from her face with a bright pink headband. I let her in. She’d brought a small backpack with her which she dumped on the kitchen table. She unzipped the main pocket.
‘For the offending package,’ she said, holding it open.
‘I thought we could leave the mallet here.’
‘Why not confront Bob with it?’ She sounded disappointed.
‘I’d prefer not to.’
She relented, zipping up her backpack and plonking herself down at the head of the table.
Seeing her all grumpy and frustrated, I changed my mind. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, bending down and opening the cupboard under the
