20-20 Club - Summer Sizzler Competition 2024 - Results

 We have just finished the 20-20 Club's Summer Sizzler Writing Competition 2024. Here are the results:

First Place

Wish You Were Here 

by Sue Davnall

 

Second Place

Wish You Were Here 

by Glen Lee

 

Third Place

At Long Last. Silence 

by DHL Hewa

 

There were also two Highly Commended stories:

The Same Goodbye by Jane Langan

Bad Company  by Lin De Laszlo

Congratulations to all our worthy winners.

We also ran a mini-competition for the most popular title:

 

FIRST PRIZE:

Shine On You Crazy Diamond [writer: Jane Langan]

SECOND PRIZE:

The Garden Detective [writer: Ron Hardwick] 

Congratulations to Jane and Ron 

*****

Below are a selection of stories from the competition:

*****

 Bad Company 

By Louise Wilford

 

A sinister blush of dull sunlight through the red Venetian blinds gave the conference room the atmosphere of a fairground Haunted House.

‘So, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ said the CEO, lowering his laser pointer. ‘our main problem is how to finance improvements to our infrastructure in order to head-off media criticism and punitive measures which might affect shareholder profits.’

              He looked round at his Senior Management Team, all wearing reflective sun-glasses and self-satisfied expressions. A red-head to his left spoke first.

              ‘Surely, Sir, even if there is sewage in our rivers – ’ Thirteen faces round the table winced at her lack of corporate euphemism. ‘ –  how can it affect profits? Our customers can’t get their water elsewhere, can they?’

              This provoked a few chuckles.

‘Quite so, Miss Barker – nevertheless, people do have some alternatives. We do have competitors – ‘

              Miss Barker adjusted her glasses. ‘But to all intents and purposes, the water companies hold a monopoly on the country’s water supply…’

              ‘People could buy more mineral water,’ quipped a middle-aged man further down, followed by a ripple of laughter.

              ‘Since we long-ago ensured supplies of supposedly ‘pure’ mineral water are actually full of micro-molecules of plastic waste, it hardly seems likely,’ said the CEO, smoothly.

‘They could drink their own piss,’ said a voice at the back. Someone choked on his nicotine smoothie. ‘If it’s good enough for Bear Grylls…’

‘Serious suggestions only, please. Where do we find the money?’

              ‘Raise everyone’s tariff,’ said a young man.

              ‘Well, of course,’ said the CEO. ‘But by how much?’

              ‘Double?’

‘300% higher?’

‘They need water to live. They’ll pay whatever we ask.’

The CEO’s goatlike eyes glowed behind his ray-bans. With shareholders like theirs, he needed the full support of his SMT. Satan’s Mindless Terrors they might be, but every little demon helps. 

*****

The Garden Detective

By Ron Hardwick

 

Tom and Janet asked me over for dinner one blistering July evening. They’d gone inside to prepare the meal, so I sat in the garden.

Tom came down with a beaker of sangria and Janet followed with a tray of ice cubes.

‘You had breakfast on the lawn,’ I said, ‘two deckchairs, facing east.’

‘Observant,’ said Janet.

‘After breakfast, Tom saw his shares falling and flung his newspaper down.’

‘Astra Zeneca. In a bull market, too.’

‘You went indoors around eleven. Coffee cups unwashed.’

‘You’re right,’ said Janet.

‘You came outside for lunch - tell-tale lettuce leaves under the table.’

‘No olive oil,’ lamented Tom.

‘In mid-afternoon, Janet panicked and slapped on sun-cream. Empty bottle under the li-lo, li-lo facing south.’

‘I only had factor fifteen.’

‘You each drank a glass of wine and ate a sandwich around five. The empty wine glasses are on the table and you never drink alcohol before tea-time. Tom dropped a crust on the ground.’

‘He always was a messy eater.’

‘After dinner, Janet decided to paint her toenails. There’s a dab of pink nail varnish that looks new on the rattan chair over there.’

‘She should use blue,’ said Tom.

‘That’d make me look diseased,’ retorted Janet, ‘cyanosis.’

‘Then, as the sun dipped behind the conservatory, you’d had enough for the day and you both went inside. A folded parasol next to the evening newspaper.’

‘Brilliant detective work,’ they said, in unison.

‘There’s one thing that puzzles me.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Janet.

‘A wellington boot, full of gravel.’

‘I was going to stick the handle of the parasol in it, but it wouldn’t fit,’ said Tom, ‘so I left it.’

‘Ah, the picture is complete,’ I said, ‘typical of a red-hot summer’s day in an English garden. The gravel’s back on the drive.’

*****

Puppy love 

By Glen Lee

 

‘Jason’s 17. You can’t make him come on holiday with us,’ his father said, thinking, thank goodness, a whole week without a sulky teenager in tow.

              His mother was worried. Her son was mixing with wrong ‘uns.

 

They met at the mini-mart for some grab and snatch.

              ‘Dave. You’re on fags. Me and Jaz’ll grab the whiskey.’

              The lads burst into the shop. Dave headed for the fags. The shopkeeper backed into a corner, his mouth shut, his eyes closed.

              Jason grabbed a bottle. ‘Put that down. Get the good stuff,’ Darren shouted, pushing an expensive cognac into his backpack.

              A dog barked. Jason dropped the bottle. Darren looked down. ‘Looks like a pedigree. It’ll fetch a good price.’

              He grabbed the animal.  ‘Let’s go.’ he shouted.

              Two boys ran. Jason stepped on the bottle. It rolled and he fell, coming eye to eye with a puppy. Without thinking, he scooped it up and ran.

              Outside, the street was empty. Jason was alone.

 

Back in the safety of his home, he held out the puppy. ‘What have I done?’ he asked it.

              His Dad was allergic to dogs. The pup couldn’t stay here but Jason was already in love with its big, brown eyes and its pinky-brown tongue. It was the pet he’d always been denied.

              Jason took dozens of pictures of the cute bundle of fluff. Then, suddenly hot under his collar, deleted the evidence of his crime.

              What could he do? Would a reward be offered? He could say he found the puppy in the street. But the shopkeeper might recognise him. And CCTV?

 

He knew what his parents would say.

              His Dad would say, ‘You’re not keeping it.’

              His Mum would say, ‘I knew you’d get into mischief as soon as my back was turned.’

 

*****

Still able to live alone 

By Louise Wilford

 That morning – after he’d dragged himself from his bed, his sleeping wife unaware he’d gone, and drove for thirty minutes to check his mother had eaten breakfast; after she’d asked who he was, and searched for his long-dead grandma through the unused dusty bedrooms of the terraced house she’d shared with his dad for fifty years; after she’d spread butter over the ham on her sandwich instead of over the bread, but took her cocktail of pills in the right order; after she’d forgotten the name of the presenter of Pointless, a man whose picture, cut from the Radio Times,  was framed on her sideboard [among photos of her dead husband, her living son and his wife, the neighbour’s cat and the paramedic who helped when she had the first TIA] – she shouted after him, as he left: ‘I love you’.

 That afternoon, he ended his usual phone-call to his mother – who’d stood in the middle of her lawn for twenty minutes, staring at the purple splash of clematis climbing up the trellis, wondering if it was a daisy or a rose, and had poured cold water into the teapot (which didn’t matter as she forgot to drink the tea), and told him she’d lost the dog (though the dog died eighteen years ago) but maybe his dad was walking him in the park [his dad was six years dead], and that ‘some woman’ (‘Dr Manderson,’ he’d said, patient and resigned) had rung earlier saying she’d to go to York Road surgery for an assessment but the ‘hairdresser’ usually came to her so she thought the call was a scam; as she cut Dr Manderson off, she’d noticed Alexander Armstrong smiling at her from the sideboard and thought he was her uncle – with the words: ‘I love you, mum’.

*****

The Same Goodbye

By Jane Langan

 

Gazing through the window, I watch damp paw prints disappear quickly as the solar rays pulse on the paving stones in the garden. A heat haze hovers as dragonflies disappear through it. The cat slinks under a bush.

              Inside, I’m crushing the ghost chillies with the pestle in the mortar. Sweat is forming in the palms of my hands inside the latex gloves. I push damp hair away from my face with my forearm. The paste is starting to look like lumpy chocolate, it’s nearly there. A fly flickers past and settles on top of the work surface. I shoo it away.

              The viscous mixture needs a couple of tablespoons of almond oil, I stir it in, then scrape the concoction into a plastic container and put it in the freezer.

              Later, at Dad’s house, he sits in his favourite chair in his khaki shorts, with blue-white bare legs and varicose veined exposed. I’m kneeling, back in latex gloves, rubbing the cold hodgepodge around his knees.

              ‘That’s great, love,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t be able to bend at all if it wasn’t for your magic potion.’

              ‘It’s just something I found online, Dad.’

              ‘I don’t care where you found it. It’s magic to me.’

              He leans back and closes his eyes, ‘Hm, and it’s nice and cool.’

              It’ll need to stay long enough for the capsicum to work on his pain transmitters. I put the kettle on.

               ‘Lemon tea, Dad?’

              ‘Yes, please. You’ve been a godsend since your mother died.’

              ‘It’s the least I could do.’

              I hand him a mug.

              Later, I say, ‘How’re they feeling?’  

              ‘Much better.’

              ‘Right, I’ll clean you up.’

              With a warm cloth, I wipe the mess off.

              ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

              ‘No need, you’re busy.’

              ‘It’s no trouble, Dad. Love you.’

              ‘Love you too.’

*****

Big In America

By Ron Hardwick

 

David was in America. He drove a rented car to a business meeting. He pulled up at a traffic light and a burly, unshaven man climbed in.

‘What are you doing?’ asked David.

‘Shaddap,’ said the man, drawing a pistol.

‘Don’t point that at me, it might go off.’

‘You a limey?’

‘Yes. Don’t you like the English?’

‘I hate them. My father was English. I shot him.’

‘Why?’

‘I never forgave him for beltin’ me when I wasn’t lookin’.’

The traffic lights changed to ‘go.’

‘Move, buddy.’

David did as he was bid.

‘I have to attend a meeting in the city,’ said David, ‘my colleagues are bound to alert the Police when I fail to turn up.’

‘I hate the cops.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve shot a policeman, as well?’

‘He bugged me. All over a tiny bit of hash.’

Behind them, a siren wailed.

‘Foot down, Limey. Make them tyres squeal.’

‘I’m doing forty already.’

The Police car drew up alongside and two policemen motioned for David to pull in.

David lowered his window and yelled:

‘Have a care, this chap’s running amok. He shoots people.’

‘We know,’ said the driver, ‘that’s why we’re tailing him.’

The Police car drove into the side of David’s vehicle and forced it into a lamp-post. Both airbags inflated.

‘Groogh,’ said David, ‘I’m suffocating.’

The killer hauled himself out of the car and fired at the cops, missing.

David eased himself from his seat, grabbed his briefcase and hit his passenger over the head with it.

‘Take that, you…you…recidivist.’

‘Cuff ‘em both,’ said the cop to his partner.

‘Me?’ asked David.

‘Sure. Helping a felon to escape.’

‘You know,’ said David as they handcuffed him, ‘I never wanted to come to this benighted country in the first place.’    

*****

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

By Jane Langan

 

 

…I’m v&ry traumatised and iLl. TNe situation complex.EXTREMELY personal. I not /want. FUCK. askING… depression. PT$D..NO!!!...’

              Vish’s rambling WhatsApp messages were becoming more extreme and incoherent.

              When Carol first met Vish at work, she thought he was fabulous with his blue contacts and cutting sense of humour. He said she was beautiful and they bonded over Blondie and Abba. Within a month Vish moved into her spare room to help with the rent.

              That year was one of the best in Carol’s life – they went clubbing and partying constantly. Carol and Vish were inseparable. She lost count of the weekends that merged into one.

              A new tradition emerged. The morning after the night before, steaming cups of black coffee would warm their hands as they curled up on the sofa and sang quietly to one another as they came down:

              ‘… How I wish, how I wish you were here.
              We're just two lost souls
              swimming in a fishbowl.’

              But, over time, Carol saw a change in Vish. His behaviour became more erratic and he was dissatisfied at work, challenging management. Finally, he resigned and said he was travelling to Australia.

              When he came back, Carol had moved on, she was planning to get married. Vish drifted in and out of her life, then her kids came and they lost touch, until now. He’d reached out via Facebook. She agreed to meet him for coffee several times but then he’d cancel at the last minute, sending odd, confusing messages. She stopped agreeing to anything.

              What had made him like this? How had this bright, beautiful man become so sad?

              With tears in her eyes, she unfriended and deleted Vish’s contact details. Then the earworm started.              

              ‘We're just two lost souls, swimming in a fishbowl…wish you were here.’

 

Inspired by Syd Barrett – one of the founding members of Pink Floyd.

*****

The Thief & The Tsarina

By Glen Lee

 

The police could not catch the thief, who changed his methodology, his modus operandi, with every crime. But they knew it was him. Large amounts of jewels were taken, and the thief was never seen.

The Chief Constable was overheard saying, ‘He blends into the background, like a damned chameleon,’

The local media, obviously, took up the name and because the thief was deemed to be invisible, he was known in the headlines as the ‘Colourless Chameleon.’

One spectacular theft after another. Always big houses, always plenty of jewels, always a great deal of overtime for the overstretched police force.

The Chief Constable was embarrassed at having been caught unawares, with his words being parroted by the press. He demanded immediate action.

The thief was upset. The term ‘colourless’ was an insult, making him sound like a feeble loser, a bottom feeder, a person of no consequence. He’d show them. He’d pull off a theft that would attract the attention of the national press. He’d make the Chief Constable eat his words.

 

The lady lived in a secluded house in a forest. She had plenty of jewels. She’d been brought up in Birmingham and no one knew her pedigree, that she was Russian, an ancestor of a relative of the last Tsar. Her parents had forbidden her to tell anyone, or the Bolsheviks would come and kill them in their beds. They kept guns in every room. Just in case.

The police never caught the Chameleon. How could they capture someone who is never seen? Anyway, it was his last burglary. The Tsarina wasn’t as easily robbed as he’d thought.

She caught him, right enough. He never left the woods, just melted, eventually, into the colours of the forest in which she’d buried him. 

*****

Bad Company 

By Jane Langan

 

We’re all drawn to people like us, thought Helen, sitting under the flickering fluorescent light at her till. She watched the group of young Asian men, in uniforms like hers, laughing together and wandering outside for a vape.

              ‘Are you going for a break soon like them?’

              A white-haired, respectable-looking man interrupted her from her reverie.

              ‘No,’ she said, smiling, ‘I’ve had mine.’

              ‘Hm, looks like they get to do what they want, while you do all the work.’

              ‘Nah, it’s fine. It’s their turn,’ Helen said, putting his shopping through the scanner.

              She glanced outside. Danesh, the shift leader was blowing vapour through his nose. She imagined a dragon.

              ‘All of them? Really?’

              ‘Hm. Do you have a Clubcard?’

              Rummaging in his pockets, he scowled in the young men’s direction and tutted.

              ‘Thanks, that’s £102.32.’

              The man pushed his card into the chip and pin.

              ‘I’m sorry, that’s been declined, please could you try again.’

              His scowl redirected itself to the machine.

              ‘I’m sorry that still hasn’t gone through, is there another card you could use?’

              ‘It’s this machine!’

              ‘I’m sorry, it’s working correctly. Shall I keep your shopping until you come back with a different card?’

              ‘Fuck you! What are you saying? Fucking idiot, it’s an error at your end.’

              Helen glimpsed Karl, from security, moving towards her position.

              ‘Sir, please. If you could just…’

              ‘I don’t need your shitty platitudes, bitch!’

              Karl led him away, still shouting.

              ‘Are you OK?’ Danesh had appeared by her side.

              ‘Yeah, fine. Nothing to see here,’ she chuckled, ‘Can you just get someone to put this shopping back, please.’

              ‘Sure, but if you need a break, I could make a coffee, you could have a biscuit?’

              ‘Honestly, it’s all good, just someone having a bad day.’

              

*****

Wish You Were Here   

By Sue Davnall

 

She could see him in the rear view mirror, his eyes flickering as he took in the passing scenery. His face was impassive but at least he was engaging in some way with the outside world.

              ‘Jodie, is everything OK back there?’

              No answer: once her daughter had her earphones in she was dead to the world. Denise risked a quick glance over her shoulder.

              ‘For God’s sake, keep your eyes on the road, woman!’

              ‘OK, Jeff, no need to shout. I know what I’m doing.’

              ‘Yeah, well – just be careful. I’ll make contact with Planet Jodie.’

              Stuart poked his big sister in the ribs and pulled on the earphone cable.

‘Jodie, Jodie, Jodie!’

              ‘Get off, you little-‘

              ‘That will do Stuart, leave your sister alone. Jodie, did you not hear your mother? She asked how things were going back there.’

              ‘You mean apart from the three of us crammed into a space meant for two, and Grandpa smelling of old milk?’

              Jeff shot his wife a glance. He’d thought this trip ill-advised from the start. Denise’s jaw was set hard and her eyes were fixed on the road ahead. Once that woman got an idea in her head…

 

West Wittering was where Denise’s Mum and Dad had brought the family when they were small: a place of sand and sunshine, deckchairs and ice cream cones. As Jeff chivvied the reluctant teenager and hyper young boy into helping to carry the picnic things down to the beach, Denise led her father behind them and settled him into a deckchair. His eyes were dull and unseeing, his mind wandering who knew where. Denise kissed him gently on the forehead and stroked his thin grey hair.

‘Wish you were here, Dad,’ she whispered.

*****

Postcards From The Boys

By Ron Hardwick

 

Dear Mary

Pity you chose to stay with your sister in Cleckheaton, leaving me free to roam. I’m in Minehead, at a bed and breakfast run by Mrs Stephens. She’s a burly woman with arms like sides of beef and a face that could stop a clock.

The B and B’s in a Victorian terrace, and I’m on the fifth floor. I’m nearer the beach than the dining room.

The meals are fine - kippers for breakfast, steak pie for dinner.  There’s a waitress called Mabel who looks about a hundred and her uniform is a cast-off from a Lyons Tea Shop. Mrs Stephens says she’s a treasure - she’s right - it looks as if she’s been dug up.

I swam in the sea this morning - most invigorating - when my teeth stop chattering, I might be able to swallow my coffee.

I had a drink with a rep from a pharmaceutical company last night and he told me a joke - a writer is writing a book about beer - he’s on to his fifth draft - draught beer, you know - well, I think it’s funny, anyway.

I went beachcombing yesterday, after a raging storm - they say it’s the best time. I found some very interesting items - a set of dentures, a lamp bulb, a crate from a Dutch fishing boat, a pair of knickers, and a message in a bottle. It’s from a woman who lives near the Dawlish sea wall, and she wants to meet an interesting man. As there are few men more interesting than myself, I telephoned her and she’s agreed to see me in Dawlish on Friday. I won’t tell her about you - they do say that three in a relationship is one too many.

 

Best wishes,

Roy

 

*****

Summer Midnight

By Louise Wilford

 

I’m awake again, sheet kicked off the bed, trying to feel the breeze that pulses weakly through the half-closed blind. Heat pummels me, making my damp skin itch. Darkness, grainy as a 1930s movie, presses me into the mattress, an unwanted caress.

The slats of the blind split the moonlight into wobbling streaks. An owl calls, long and low – is answered by a distant yearning hoot across the valley.

I’m thinking of you, while the air’s shy fingers slide through the apple tree outside, too nervous to slip inside and cool my heat-plate skin. My brain’s lit-up fire-bright with thoughts of you.

Your calloused palms against my cheek, the almond-orange scent of your shampoo as your hair fell softly across my face…

 

It was a summer love, heady as a peach ripening in the sun, giving up its flesh in one juicy burst. It left me only this memory of sweetness, this ache that keeps sleep away each time July’s hot breath stirs me again. The smell of sunflowers, the leathery shine of ivy on the fence, wisteria blossom climbing the wall to gather round the glass, moths spreading their dusty wings against the starlight…the world waking, coming alive.

That’s when you step into my mind, unasked for.

I’m old now. You’re twenty years gone. A wanderer who worked my land for a while, one summer long ago. You edged into my days - and then my nights. And then, one morning, as the leaves turned and the apples fell, you were gone.

I didn’t mind. I knew I wouldn’t keep you long. Beautiful as quicksilver – slippery, dangerous. I couldn’t make you stay.

It’s just these hot July nights.

You’re a coal that never fully cooled, and – now and then – it still burns.

Now and then.

On Summer midnights.

 

*****

Wish You Were Here 

By Glen Lee

 

You slipped peacefully away. I have no peace, but I am keeping that promise you insisted I make. 

We’d planned this trip together, hadn’t we, and wanted to see and do as much as possible.

The day was already hot when I set out, walking from the hotel. Istanbul is a 24-hour-a-day city, and the flow of vehicles doesn’t stop. But the roads are safer than the treacherous pavements with their flights of steps that open up beneath unwary feet. I dodge taxis, tourist buses, motorbikes. You should be with me. Laughing at the adventure. Staring longingly at the glitzy displays in the shoe shops. Well-fed cats are strolling everywhere, with a nonchalance you’d adore.

I’m walking slowly. Some of the roads are steep, some are very steep, and some are exceptionally steep. Even vehicles have difficulty on the slippery cobbled slopes in this stop-start traffic. You, of course, would be ahead, waiting, calling me a Slow-Coach.

The queue at the Blue Mosque is not long and I spend the time clumsily tying my scarf. We bought two in India, you remember? I am wearing yours today. Within minutes, sweat is dripping into my eyes. Silk is warm to wear.

The visit to the Sultanahmet Mosque was top of your bucket list, you said. Then you became ill and quietly gave up our plans. I say a little prayer as I remove my shoes.

Hundreds of people, of all nations fill this great space. Chatter and prayers drift up to the dome, leaving a pool of serenity through which all of humanity moves slowly, as though time is almost standing still.

And now, leaving the peace of the Mosque, there is a crack in my anger and maybe a little of that peace will enter my heart instead? 

*****

Strange Heat   

By Mike Poyzer

 

Jim looked at the thermometer and tapped it. Three o’clock in the morning and still this hot. He can’t understand it. The air conditioning went off at midnight as usual, so with all the windows doors and shutters closed, it normally stays cooler till the morning. In his fairly sheltered position, surrounded by Mediterranean pines, the fierce heat from the sun in this heat wave is mitigated slightly, and though on all day, the air con stays off in the hours of darkness. Tonight, however, the temperature seems to have gone up already by five or six degrees.

He looks at the drawn curtains and thinks about getting off his bed and opening them. The high -quality sealed double- glazed windows keep it so quiet in there but in addition they keep out those pesky mosquitos, which are so much more prevalent in the pine trees. Eventually he reluctantly stands up and goes over to the curtains. Reaching up he grasps each curtain with each hand and draws them apart. Looking through the glazed windows he is surprised to detect light through the narrow slats of the shutters, just the other side of the windows. His curiosity now piques and he decides he must open the doors. Reaching down to the right -hand door handle on the patio doors, he pulls it down and opens the door.

Totally unprepared for the blast of hot humid air which sweeps around him, for the first time he registers panic in his brain. The crackling noise and sudden smell of hot charcoal forewarns him, and flicking the latches on the shutters, he pushes them open and is horrified to see the cause of this temperature increase. All around him, at only about a hundred metres distance, his beloved pine forest is ablaze.

*****

Heat

By Sue Davnall

 

‘Where have you been?’

Joan stood at the door wearing her angry face. Ted often imagined her going into a hidden cupboard somewhere, under the stairs maybe, every morning after breakfast and picking the mask she would put on that day. For the Vicar and the ladies of the flower-arranging committee it was benign and accommodating, a ‘what can I do to help’ face. For the poor receptionist at the doctor’s surgery and the underpaid staff at the supermarket it was supercilious and disdainful, reminding them that their best wasn’t ever good enough. Ted himself got the ‘long-suffering wife’ look that told him that in their forty-five-year-old marriage he had never failed to be a disappointment.

He wondered what he'd done wrong now.

‘I told you the Pargeters were coming to dinner tonight.’

Ted groaned. The Mayor and his wife. Joan had been cultivating their friendship for ages, angling for an invitation to join the Mayoress’s lunch club, an exclusive (apparently) group of women notorious for its vindictive gossip. What pleasure Joan would derive from it Ted couldn’t guess, but it wouldn’t do much to improve Joan’s character. No, it wouldn’t do at all.

 

‘Keep an eye on that casserole. Don’t let it burn.’

‘Where are you going?’

Withering glance.

‘To get changed, of course, and sort out my hair. I look an absolute mess.’

Ted couldn’t see anything wrong, but then he’d never understood the finer nuances of women’s attire.

He wandered into the kitchen. The odour of the casserole was seductive, his mouth watered. He’d say one thing for Joan: she was a wonderful cook.

Ted examined the oven dial: a higher heat setting ought to do the trick.

 

Joan’s scream as she lifted the burnt offering from the oven could be heard in John O’Groats.

*****