card to me,’ said Sophy, who had put the rest of the pack back down on the table.
‘What,’ said Simon, ‘just like that? On its own?’
Sophy nodded. With a shrug, Simon handed it over. Sophy took the card and turned it over. Hang on, Simon wanted to say, that’s cheating. Instead he asked, rather petulantly, ‘Now what?’
‘And now, the miracle,’ announced Sophy. She opened the carton of milk and poured milk into the glass until it was full to the brim. Simon realized which trick she was going to do. He relaxed.
‘As you can see, I have poured this completely ordinary milk into this completely ordinary glass,’ explained Sophy.
‘Indeed,’ said Simon.
‘Now, I shall take this completely ordinary playing card that you have chosen and place it over the glass of milk.’ Sophy carefully slid the card over the rim of the glass so that it covered the mouth of the glass completely. As she did so her tongue stuck slightly out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Simon waited. Sophy moved around the table next to where he sat. ‘Now watch very carefully,’ she said. She placed one hand over the playing card, and turned the glass upside down. The milk stayed in the glass, kept there by the pressure of the card which Sophy was still holding in place. Simon applauded as best as he could with one hand.
‘Amazing,’ he said.
‘Hang on,’ said Sophy, edging a little closer, her eyes fixed firmly on the glass. ‘Do you want to see something really amazing?’
‘More amazing than that?’ asked Simon, who knew what was coming next.
Sophy nodded.
‘Go on then,’ said Simon.
Very slowly, Sophy took her hand away from beneath the playing card. The card, and the milk, stayed where they were, apparently defying the laws of gravity.
Thank God, thought Simon, and said, ‘Wow.’
Sophy beamed. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked.
‘Like it?’ said Simon. ‘It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a genius. Superb.’
Sophy smiled and took a step towards him. ‘Thank –’ she began. Before she could go any further, her movement disrupted the finely-balanced principles of physics that the trick relied upon, and the card fell away from the mouth of the glass, swiftly followed by the milk itself, most of which landed on Simon’s lap.
‘Sophy!’ cried Arabella. She moved quickly to fetch a roll of kitchen paper. Seconds later the mopping up process had begun.
‘Sorry,’ said Sophy, who was still clutching the empty upside-down glass.
‘Are you all right, Simon?’ asked Arabella.
‘A bit wet, but I’ll live.’ The milk had begun to seep through the material of his trousers, which were now cold and clammy against his skin.
Arabella groaned. ‘I’m sorry. I should have made her be more careful. Sophy, say sorry to Simon.’
‘I just did,’ Sophy pointed out.
‘Then say it again.’
‘Sorry, Simon,’ said Sophy.
Simon smiled grimly. ‘That’s all right, Soph. It was still a good trick.’
Arabella was joined under the table by Daniel the Spaniel who began to lap up the remaining milk with his over-sized tongue. When he had finished he lifted his nose into the air, and, smelling more milk, unceremoniously put his snout into Simon’s groin and began licking again.
Simon pushed Daniel away as quickly as he could, and put his bandaged arm down to shield his groin from further canine investigation. Some weekend, he thought. It began with the promise of new social frontiers being conquered. It ended fending off offers of oral sex from a mentally retarded household pet.
Arabella sat back down at the table, the clean-up completed. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.
Simon shrugged. ‘Don’t worry.’ He looked at his watch. He was feeling tired, and wanted to take his trousers off. ‘I’d better go,’ he said.
Arabella looked at him sadly. ‘All right,’ she said.
‘Thanks for dinner.’
‘You’re very welcome. Sorry Michael didn’t make it.’
‘Oh God, don’t worry,’ said Simon. Secretly, he was pleased. He stood up stiffly, leaning against the table.
Arabella handed him his crutches. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘I’d offer to drive you home but Michael has the car today.’
Simon shrugged. ‘I can find a taxi. It’ll be quick at this time of night.’
‘Back soon?’ asked Arabella.
Simon nodded. ‘Yes please.’ He bent down to his niece. ‘See you then, sweet pea.’ He kissed the top of her head.
‘All right,’ said Sophy.
‘Bye then,’ said Simon. As he opened the door, Michael was walking up the steps.
‘Well,’ said Michael dryly. ‘It’s Merlin the Magician. What a nice surprise.’
‘Merlin was a wizard, actually,’ said Simon.
‘Merlin was a wizard, actually,’ minced Michael. ‘I do apologize. How ignorant of me.’
‘Hard day at the office?’ asked Simon pointedly.
Michael looked at him suspiciously. ‘Very,’ he replied. He pointed at Simon’s crutches. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Had an accident?’
‘Sort of,’ said Simon cautiously.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Michael, who didn’t sound sorry in the slightest. ‘Were you just going?’
‘I, er, yes,’ said Simon, resisting the urge to clobber Michael over the head with one of his crutches.
‘Excellent. Well, goodbye, then.’ Michael turned to go into the house. With an apologetic wave, Arabella followed him inside.
Simon stood on the porch, alone. For a few moments he remained there, staring unseeing at the darkening sky. He felt robbed, the intimacy and comfort of his Sunday evening violated by Michael’s brief but brutish intrusion.
Finally a blaring honk from an irate motorist further down the road woke Simon from his dream. He hobbled off to find a taxi.
Ah, Mondays.
Mondays mean different things to different people, but one thing that you can generally be sure of is that, whatever that meaning is, it is bound to be bad.
For Simon Teller, Mondays meant, amongst other bad things, long queues at the tube station. There was an almost tangible excitement on Monday mornings at Highbury and Islington station as the crowds of commuters waited in line for their weekly travel passes. Frustration and impatience simmered beneath the surface of their bland, just awake faces. One day somebody was going to crack, pull out a semi-automatic machine gun, and mow down the queues of waiting people. It was just a matter of time. In order to add a little spice to proceedings, on Monday mornings London Underground made sure to employ only their slowest and most unhelpful ticket sellers. The atmosphere of chaotic inefficiency contributed richly to the start of everyone’s week.
Simon arrived at the station at the usual time. He had not had a good start to the day. With his right hand bandaged up, he had had to shave with his left hand, and the operation had not been a