“It’s not going to happen.” sighs Alan. There’s a loaf on the table and three glasses. A bread knife grazes a board and the butter is at the threshold between molten and solid, moulded into the form of a swordfish.

“Come on, there’s still hope! Just a little longer.” Pete reassures him. Pete is usually right about these things. Pete’s part of the problem, though. Pete’s a dog, and dogs aren’t supposed to talk, at least not in Lavenham, such exciting things aren’t allowed to happen round here. Three months ago Jude from round the corner gained the power of flight. They were having none of it, the villagers. Her husband, the milkman, moved out and took the children with him. Two days later and she wasn’t seen again, probably beaten to death by the local rabble. Too exciting for Lavenham.

Alan has told only his parents, surely he can trust them, they’re not going to tell anyone, they will still love him. Every second Sunday they come round for malt loaf and elderflower cordial, with a dash of rum. He told them on Thursday that Pete had started talking to him. They are twenty minutes late. He thought they had taken it well. Maybe they were as blind as the rest. Too exciting for Lavenham.