Cyril surveyed his garden. He was particularly proud of the neat rows of flowers, the complete absence of even a single weed and with the lawn, which he mowed twice a week. As a former military man – an undistinguished two years of National Service entirely spent in Catterick – he liked stripes, even though he never quite managed to earn any.
Sadly, there was no Vita to his Harold Nicolson. Twenty two years previously his wife, Nancy, had left a letter on the kitchen table, which he'd found when he returned from the bookshop he owned. He could remember every word:
Dear Cyril,
I have tried talking and I have even tried screaming, but I just don't seem to get through to you. Maybe it's my fault in some way. I had thought you might change over time – that you would mellow. However, if anything, your obsessive behaviour has got worse. Neatness is not next to godliness.
As you can see, this letter hasn't been written using the page with the black lines underneath. And I know that this will dismay you as much as this sentence beginning with a conjunction. It will probably upset you more than my departure.
So, yes, I am leaving you. I've had enough of the dirty crockery being rearranged 'properly' in the dishwasher, I don't want to have bookcases ordered by author and I definitely don't need to be told how to pack the shopping at the supermarket.
AND I do not want you to contact me. If you do, I shall tell your golfing buddy Vernon about your predilection. You know that I am determined and, once my mind is made up, there's nothing that will change it. You have been warned.
Nancy
At the time, Cyril had read the letter in utter disbelief. How on Earth did Nancy think it in any way acceptable not to use the lined page so kindly provided by Basildon Bond. Astonishing! He'd then smiled to himself. Now he would be able to wear floral dresses whenever he pleased. He'd also be able to invite Barbara (aka Vernon) over for tea.