Frances thought her bladder would burst; walking the extra two hundred yards to the outdoor lavatory was out of the question. The zinnia patch adjacent to the patio would have to suffice. It was nearly 9 pm, no-one would see.

She grabbed the battered torch that was left near the back door and stepped out onto the patio. A dulcet evening breeze, heavy with the sweet perfume of jasmine, wove its way through the recently watered garden. Frances moved the flashlight up and down to orientate herself in the dark. Almost immediately, various insects swarmed the rim of the torch, seduced by the faint light. Once she’d located the zinnias, Frances moved towards them with purpose. Shaking the flashlight free of the insects, she wedged it into the nook of her right armpit. Hitching up her powder-blue housecoat she yanked down her underpants, then crouched low among the flowers.