counter. It was wonderful how he could
look at them so casually, so lightly , almost as if it were mints
or chewing gum he was seeing. Interesting, though, that here
they were on sale in a health food shop yet while he was hooked
on them he had worried a bit that the chemicals in them might
be harmful.
His mind went back to the time when he was running out of
places where Chocorange could be found. How happy he would
have been then, how overjoyed, to come upon a cache like this
in such an unexpected place. But thinking about it, he realised
that his favourites must also be used by diabetics and here he
could see chocolate and biscuits for those who had a problem
with sugar. Shop assistants in the past must have thought he
was diabetic. Strange that he wouldn't have minded that at all.
Was this because being an addict implied weakness of mind
whereas to be diabetic meant only a pancreatic deficiency beyond
one's control? It was an interesting question.
He was almost inclined to put himself to the test. Buy a packet
of Chocorange and airily suck one on the way home, knowing that
he wouldn't require another all the evening. But, no. Better not.
Not yet. He picked up a bar of diabetic chocolate instead and said
he'd have that.
'A great improvement on what they used to be, these sweets
and chocolate, aren't they?' the girl behind the counter said in a
friendly way.
Eugene agreed. He even said that the Chocorange were delicious,
as good as the 'real thing', and he marvelled at himself for
discussing his former addiction so openly. But of course what he
was discussing was his mythical diabetes. The time might even
come when he could talk freely about his habit, laugh ruefully
about it, the way other people did about their past alcohol or drugs
dependency.
It had been a lovely day and was going to be a fine warm
evening. Warm enough for them to eat their dinner outside? Eating
a square of diabetic chocolate, he went into the garden via the
french windows, testing the air temperature. Ella would have to
decide. In spite of their greater distribution of subcutaneous fat,
Eugene had noticed that women seemed to feel the cold more
than men. It was while he was reflecting on this anomaly that he
glanced towards the side gate and saw that it wasn't bolted. Carli
must have unbolted it to let the gardener in and out, and then
forgotten to bolt it again. But wasn't it rather absurd to keep a
gate bolted when it was already locked? His neighbours were paranoid
about the security of their homes. The couple with that crosspatch
cat, Bathsheba, had bars on all the ground-floor and
basement windows, and no fewer than three separate locks on
their front door. That sort of thing fuelled people's fear of crime
and did not, in fact, discourage burglars who only looked on fortress
mentality as a challenge.
The diabetic chocolate wasn't at all nice. It had a dry dusty
taste. He would eat no more of it.
The Bank Holiday weekend was coming up and he was taking
Ella away for two days on the Saturday to Amberley Castle
in Sussex. It would be a short but luxurious holiday. He had booked
a medieval but state-of-the-art-refurbished room with a four-poster
bed. Spoiling Ella, he had decided, was to be an ongoing feature
of his marriage and he intended to get into practice. Carless
himself, he was renting a car, and although this meant a horrible
drive through south London, Ella could sit beside him, taking her
ease and, at least for the second part of the journey, enjoying the
view.
While they were putting suitcases into the boot, he told her
about his newly formed decision to be less security-conscious.
'Prudent but not too prudent,' he said. 'For instance, I shan't be
bolting the side gate. All that would happen is that I'd forget to
unbolt it and then the gardener can't get in. I shall lock and bolt
the door into the area, of course, see all windows are shut and put
on the alarm.'
'Will you leave a couple of lights on?'
'I really think that only
look at them so casually, so lightly , almost as if it were mints
or chewing gum he was seeing. Interesting, though, that here
they were on sale in a health food shop yet while he was hooked
on them he had worried a bit that the chemicals in them might
be harmful.
His mind went back to the time when he was running out of
places where Chocorange could be found. How happy he would
have been then, how overjoyed, to come upon a cache like this
in such an unexpected place. But thinking about it, he realised
that his favourites must also be used by diabetics and here he
could see chocolate and biscuits for those who had a problem
with sugar. Shop assistants in the past must have thought he
was diabetic. Strange that he wouldn't have minded that at all.
Was this because being an addict implied weakness of mind
whereas to be diabetic meant only a pancreatic deficiency beyond
one's control? It was an interesting question.
He was almost inclined to put himself to the test. Buy a packet
of Chocorange and airily suck one on the way home, knowing that
he wouldn't require another all the evening. But, no. Better not.
Not yet. He picked up a bar of diabetic chocolate instead and said
he'd have that.
'A great improvement on what they used to be, these sweets
and chocolate, aren't they?' the girl behind the counter said in a
friendly way.
Eugene agreed. He even said that the Chocorange were delicious,
as good as the 'real thing', and he marvelled at himself for
discussing his former addiction so openly. But of course what he
was discussing was his mythical diabetes. The time might even
come when he could talk freely about his habit, laugh ruefully
about it, the way other people did about their past alcohol or drugs
dependency.
It had been a lovely day and was going to be a fine warm
evening. Warm enough for them to eat their dinner outside? Eating
a square of diabetic chocolate, he went into the garden via the
french windows, testing the air temperature. Ella would have to
decide. In spite of their greater distribution of subcutaneous fat,
Eugene had noticed that women seemed to feel the cold more
than men. It was while he was reflecting on this anomaly that he
glanced towards the side gate and saw that it wasn't bolted. Carli
must have unbolted it to let the gardener in and out, and then
forgotten to bolt it again. But wasn't it rather absurd to keep a
gate bolted when it was already locked? His neighbours were paranoid
about the security of their homes. The couple with that crosspatch
cat, Bathsheba, had bars on all the ground-floor and
basement windows, and no fewer than three separate locks on
their front door. That sort of thing fuelled people's fear of crime
and did not, in fact, discourage burglars who only looked on fortress
mentality as a challenge.
The diabetic chocolate wasn't at all nice. It had a dry dusty
taste. He would eat no more of it.
The Bank Holiday weekend was coming up and he was taking
Ella away for two days on the Saturday to Amberley Castle
in Sussex. It would be a short but luxurious holiday. He had booked
a medieval but state-of-the-art-refurbished room with a four-poster
bed. Spoiling Ella, he had decided, was to be an ongoing feature
of his marriage and he intended to get into practice. Carless
himself, he was renting a car, and although this meant a horrible
drive through south London, Ella could sit beside him, taking her
ease and, at least for the second part of the journey, enjoying the
view.
While they were putting suitcases into the boot, he told her
about his newly formed decision to be less security-conscious.
'Prudent but not too prudent,' he said. 'For instance, I shan't be
bolting the side gate. All that would happen is that I'd forget to
unbolt it and then the gardener can't get in. I shall lock and bolt
the door into the area, of course, see all windows are shut and put
on the alarm.'
'Will you leave a couple of lights on?'
'I really think that only
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