All this I got with a quick glance as I asked her to excuse me and stepped past. I got a fleeting smile and a 'sorry', in return.I have to say that she stuck in my mind, I suppose it was the tattoo really. Well, yes, of course it was. I saw her about a few times over the next month or two, I don't go into town often, in fact I'm a bit of a recluse since my wife died, so apart from essential shopping and very occasional doctor's visits I never go there. Oh, I do go into the newsagents when I'm down there because there are a couple of cuddly young blondes who run it, so I get the odd magazine from there, others I subscribe to and the postie delivers. I live about four miles out of town in a bungalow set on a couple of acres with a barn which I use as a workshop and various other outbuildings, and I always ride my bike down the old railway track when I do go to town. I'm not sure how this stands with the councils' bye laws, as if I cared, which say walking and cycling are allowed, but. Jarrad felt it necessary to remind everyone of the previous night. “You're a little over-dressed aren't you Ashley.” Everyone was startled by the crassness of the remark. Ashley chose to ignore it. George gave Jarrad an 'if-looks-could-kill' type of stare. Brad addressed it head-on. “That's out of line and you know it,” he said. “Wouldn't surprise me if she made you cook your own damn pancakes.” Jarrad back-pedaled, “Yeah, you're right. That wasn't too cool, I guess.” He looked around. Brad and George were staring contemptuously. Ashley had her back to him. “Look, I'm sorry guys; I'll try to do better.” George and Brad each picked up their coffee cups with a 'we'll-see' type attitude. Ashley flipped the last of the pancakes onto the serving plate. As she did so, she hesitated. She knew she ought to behave herself but she wasn't sure she wanted to. “George, can you give me a hand?” she asked without turning around. Brad and Jarrad were talking football, about what was going to happen.
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