When Sally married, it was for keeps. Or that is what she told herself. She probably should have confirmed it with Rob too before he ran off with the gym bunny.
It seemed like ages ago now, yet when she sat down to work out how long since she last saw him, it was actually only 5 months. The collapse of her seven year marriage and the more recent saga with Keira and Sparkie had virtually wiped out most of her enthusiasm for life. Most of the time she felt like a vague impression of her former self, just going through the motions of everyday life. Not having other close friends or family was almost a blessing, strangely enough. Although she was lonely, she was also grateful not to have prying eyes watching her progress - or lack of it - after recent events. No one to ask whether she was eating properly or getting enough sleep. No one to query whether she was moving on with her life. No one to care whether she got up in the morning really.
Her one passion had always been rescue dogs. More specifically former racing dogs: greyhounds, whippets, lurchers. Her empathy for Keira's dog Sparkie had probably been a little misplaced, she thought in hindsight. He was a totally pampered West Highland terrier who even had his own wardrobe and range of collars. Keira used to wash his feet - in lukewarm water, of course - after every walk. His meals were prepared by an outside canine catering agency, so his specific dietary requirements would be adhered to. Although he did appear to be overweight when Sally last saw him, an observation she kept to herself.
A persistent question nagged Sally. If Sparkie had not died, would she still have landed herself in this latest mess? It all seemed interconnected somehow. It was easy enough to mull over the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys', but in truth she did question whether the episode with the dead dog's fundraising that went so badly wrong had set this train in motion or whether she was on the slippery slope already. Either way, it was too late to ponder any further.
The computer screen stared back at her, statistics beckoning. Goodness, she thought, what kind of idiot would need to know these numbers? "How many single-parent council houses in south London?" one of the questions she had to find answers to. "Number of children per household under the age of five where parent(s) are aged twenty or younger?" Surely this was all information readily available from the Bureau of Statistics? Her mind felt fuzzy and her eyes hurt.
Dogs, dogs, dogs, she thought. A familiar voice in the background. Not that ginger-haired fellow with the weird ears, he was harmless enough and his voice at least melodious and pleasant. Another one. Fake cockney it sounded like. On and on it droned. Some exchange which she wasn't really tuned into until they said that word and all the recent events came flooding back and she looked around towards the door.
Rabbits. Oh boy, she thought. I have got to clear this one up before matters get even worse.
It seemed like ages ago now, yet when she sat down to work out how long since she last saw him, it was actually only 5 months. The collapse of her seven year marriage and the more recent saga with Keira and Sparkie had virtually wiped out most of her enthusiasm for life. Most of the time she felt like a vague impression of her former self, just going through the motions of everyday life. Not having other close friends or family was almost a blessing, strangely enough. Although she was lonely, she was also grateful not to have prying eyes watching her progress - or lack of it - after recent events. No one to ask whether she was eating properly or getting enough sleep. No one to query whether she was moving on with her life. No one to care whether she got up in the morning really.
Her one passion had always been rescue dogs. More specifically former racing dogs: greyhounds, whippets, lurchers. Her empathy for Keira's dog Sparkie had probably been a little misplaced, she thought in hindsight. He was a totally pampered West Highland terrier who even had his own wardrobe and range of collars. Keira used to wash his feet - in lukewarm water, of course - after every walk. His meals were prepared by an outside canine catering agency, so his specific dietary requirements would be adhered to. Although he did appear to be overweight when Sally last saw him, an observation she kept to herself.
A persistent question nagged Sally. If Sparkie had not died, would she still have landed herself in this latest mess? It all seemed interconnected somehow. It was easy enough to mull over the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys', but in truth she did question whether the episode with the dead dog's fundraising that went so badly wrong had set this train in motion or whether she was on the slippery slope already. Either way, it was too late to ponder any further.
The computer screen stared back at her, statistics beckoning. Goodness, she thought, what kind of idiot would need to know these numbers? "How many single-parent council houses in south London?" one of the questions she had to find answers to. "Number of children per household under the age of five where parent(s) are aged twenty or younger?" Surely this was all information readily available from the Bureau of Statistics? Her mind felt fuzzy and her eyes hurt.
Dogs, dogs, dogs, she thought. A familiar voice in the background. Not that ginger-haired fellow with the weird ears, he was harmless enough and his voice at least melodious and pleasant. Another one. Fake cockney it sounded like. On and on it droned. Some exchange which she wasn't really tuned into until they said that word and all the recent events came flooding back and she looked around towards the door.
Rabbits. Oh boy, she thought. I have got to clear this one up before matters get even worse.