We were browsing in the High Street when Crisp, my aged companion and I stopped in front of the shop window.
“That’s just how I feel some days,” she said, “wrung out, stripped down to bare bones.”
“Oh,” I said, “I thought you were referring to the bunting, ‘danger’ and all that.”
“You are so shallow,” she replied, “I have feelings; you shouldn’t be taking me for granted.”
“I could hardly do that when you make it perfectly clear where you stand on most issues and where you wish me to stand.”
“How typically male, its not about you all the time.”
I felt it was time to shut up. There was no reason to antagonise the situation.
“I sometimes feel like screaming for help, but I know there’s none to be had,” she said.
We stood looking at the sad display before she took my arm and suggested we pop into the café nearby for lunch.