Her voice was kind and smiley. "Let me have your bank details and I can process your winter fuel payment and the Christmas hamper."
"Bank details?"
"For verification. It's a government requirement."
"Er... I don't think ..."
"Would you prefer sherry or whisky in your hamper?"
"Oooh whisky please."

A tiny sound like the shaking out of a newspaper, a minute newspaper, a newspaper a cockroach might read. It was a moth bashing at the dim green nightlight, wrecked wings battering a frantic jig to a straight line drop. A corpse, a little life that smashed itself to death.

Privacy was sacrosanct. Everyone had secrets. We trusted each other. No snooping. She was asleep. Her bedside drawer open. Just an inch. Careful. Quiet. Smooth. I eased another inch. And another. A printout. My bank statement. The standing order for XXXVOYEURXXX circled in red.

The orange funnel necked coat lit up his face, rosy, rudely vital.
"Hi! This is Mike's party?"
Radiant with the confidence of a youthful and generous nature expecting a likewise hearty welcome, he made to come in, then hesitated, a tiny twitch dotting his top lip.