Jasfoup looked at the gift in Harold's hand. "What did you do?" he asked.
Harold stuck his nose in the air. "Nothing," he said. "Can't a man bring his beloved a bouquet of flowers when he feels inspired?"
"Of course he can, but those..." Jasfoup showed his contempt for the mixed carnations and roses, "are from the late garage on Mycroft Road and can only represent guilt. I ask again. What have you done?"
Harold's bluster deflated like the Hindenburg. "I ran over one of the cats this morning."
"I see." Jasfoup stared out of the window. "They're Gillian's cats, though, you should apologise to her."
"I will. That's what the flowers are for."
"Oh?" Jasfoup frowned. "You never bring me flowers."