As it’s quiet,’ said Grace, my charity shop colleague, ‘may I pop to the bookshop to get some fuses?’ ‘Fuses? When did the bookshop start selling fuses?’
‘They don’t sell them, silly. Lovely Chris has a spare box that he’s brought in for me. I’ve run out at home and the lights keep fusing for some reason. And who keeps spare fuses?’
‘Apart from Chris, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Don’t mind me. I’ll be fine. Lonely, but fine.’
The following things then happened: Grace disappeared in search
