He watched Mary in her garish turquoise smock, huffing and puffing after a short walk up the garden path. They went inside, the cigarette smell almost choking him. As always, his eyes fell to her fat legs, the ones you see on larger old ladies where ankles now fail to exist. She gave him lemonade, a Mars Bar and ready salted crisps. Always ready salted. He told her every week he didn’t like them. She wiped her glasses on the tattered tea cloth and ran her chubby fingers through her matted grey perm.