She wrapped a third ziplock bag around the dog droppings, placed the insulated pile inside a plastic express-post envelope, sealed that and placed the whole thing neatly on the bottom shelf of her refrigerator. Though confident contamination was not an issue, Franny decided a dose of bleach throughout her Fisher & Paykel the next day would not go astray. She made a mental note to do that, but not before she had shoved the whole fragrant bundle in a post box somewhere random, away from prying eyes. And nostrils.

Now her priority was a stiff Tanqueray. Eyes shifting to the clock above the fridge, she breathed out, seeing once again she had made it to six o’clock.

‘Praise the Lord and pass the mustard!’ She reached for her mobile phone, switched it to silent, then stashed it inside the cutlery draw. The last two days had been unexpectedly rough, her emotions in tumult since the arrival of a letter from The Evil Prick who had killed her Frank. Who wouldn’t need a bloody gin?

Some people said the nights were the worst, but Franny disagreed. Almost daily she found herself watching the kitchen clock as it inched towards six, ready to exhale that guilty sigh.

People’s thoughts turned inwards as the sun began to set. There was dinner to think of or grandkids to wrangle, night classes to pack for and mind-numbing amateur theatre to attend. Caring phone calls, sundry tender interference, would abate and Franny could crack open the gin and fire up the Netflix. Finally, and luxuriously, she could wallow in style…

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