Jenni spent ten minutes standing on the footpath looking into the display of meat in the butcher's shop. One of the two remaining butchers came to behind the display and pointed to his watch, indicating that the shop was about to close.
It puzzled Jenni why she spent most of the day making snap decision yet that technique failed her when it came to choosing meat, or toilet paper at the supermarket or a book from the 'New Arrivals' display in a bookshop.
She decided on 500 grams of 18% fat beef mince.
But as the butcher began wrapping it she thought that sausages would be a change. The man smiled, put the mince back on to the tray and picked up a string of sausages.
"How many love?"
Jenni pondered over that.
"I'll tell you what love. My girlfriend is in the rear carpark waiting for me, impatiently I believe. Why don't I just charge you for half of these but you take the whole string. A deal?"
Red-faced Jenni nodded and reached for her purse. She found only £50 notes and her credit cards.
She held out one of the notes, expecting the butcher to go berserk.
Instead he smiled and said, "Thanks for the biggie love. Now I can get rid of some of my small notes."
Jenni gratefully accepted the wad of five pound notes and left. As the butcher began closing the door behind her, he called out - "Watch the traffic dear - it's very busy at this time of night."
She smiled. Presumably he thought she was on release from a facility for the mentally challenged.
At home Jenni lightened up with a gin and tonic listening to some stirring Beethoven on the sofa with her feet up. After twenty minutes of near bliss she had a good cry over the onions while all ten sausages were browning in the pan. She stirred in the curry and other bits into pan of sausages and sautéed onions and then turned down the heat. It was time for another gin.
Rhonda arrived home to find Jenni soundly asleep and got to the stove in time to save the sausages. She cooked the rice, put the plates on two trays and opened two bottles of beer and yelled, "Come and get it!"
Jenni awoke to find her dinner ready to be placed on her lap.
"Oh Rhonda, how sweet of you, curried sausages but I don't know if I want beer with them."
"It's the best thing; curry kills the taste of wine."
"If you say so."
It was then that Rhonda noticed the gin bottle had taken a big hit.
"You look tired Jenni. I think you should go straight to bed after this. It's been a big week for you."
"Yes indeed, but I finished up on a light note reading your column then having some banter with Nico about adages but I decided against trying to explain the difference between adages and metaphorical proverbs."
"Meta what?"
"It's okay Rhonda. It's just at school I got my knuckles almost pulverized with a ruler because I was a stupid girl who couldn't understand the difference. It was a lesson I've never forgotten but I assure you it is not necessary to know the difference. The example old Mrs Riley drummed into me of a metaphorical proverb was hilarious - again not forgotten: The way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time."
"Eat up your sausages," said Rhonda, who looked apprehensively at the sausages as if they might contain to harbour the thought that there might elephant meat.
She shuddered.
"Oh Rhonda, I am aware that I am still capable of doing some amazing things, at least I'm amazed that I can do them. And yet the butcher tonight identified me as being mentally deficient."
"What? How could he, or was it she?"
"No it was he. She was waiting in the car."
"Pardon?"
"It's of little consequence. However, there I was in the butcher's shop unable to decide whether I wanted five or six sausages. He saved me from my anguish by giving me ten and charging me for only half of them."
"Good for him. Butchers are such nice guys - they eat their meat raw and just love women."
"Do they? Thinking back it would have been more lust than love in his mind about his girlfriend waiting for him in the car after he'd been dealing with meat all day."
"Is there a difference?"
"Between love and lust? Of course there is."
"Really? I was unaware of that. Anyway what did you think of my column?"
"Truly?"
"Yes."
Jenni took a swig of beer.
"The story telling is great, tightly presented and leading the reader quickly along and perhaps raising eyebrows a few times, which is great. But it is not as good as your first column - it doesn't generate the fresh and spirited you that was in the first column."
"This latest submission was interesting although journalistically rather banal. As a columnist you are entitled to inject a little make-believe to increase atmosphere and tension, though not significantly distorting fact or introducing primary invention."
You let your women mention what they were drinking, which was good, but you add little further characterisation. I think my gins are doing some of the talking, but do you get what I'm saying?"
"Yes, at least I think I do. In this column I've produced almost ghostlike story tellers."
"Very good Rhonda."
"Jenni I accept that writing professionally requires talent and hard grafting and I thought I had both. This is so frustrating."
"You do have both, darling, but some of the other things will come through experience. You need to read more - but read critically. Ask yourself why the author phrased the words like that - probably to inject freshness. And when you begin thinking 'what a lovely description' and 'that's very powerful narrative' and on other occasions 'that's exceedingly sensitive writing'."
"At that point you'll be on the way towards 'feeling' the passages that you are reading. Don't worry, it will come. I recognise a lot of natural talent in you. Worry too much about getting the words out and your native style that's uniquely you will be garrotted."
"Pardon me - isn't 'garrotted' rather excessive in that context?"
"Indeed it is. The gin is talking and I don't like being told to be careful of the traffic."
"Who said that?"
"The butcher!"
"To hell with the butcher. You're just experiencing a low, possible the start of nervous exhaustion."
"Changing the subject, I've been thinking of returning to my shared flat. I mean living here was only a temporary arrangement. The women I share with often ask when will return. They do miss me, they say, but I think they really miss my cooking."
"How lovely it is to feel so wanted. I will be so sad when you go, yet I recognise that it must be a little dull for you living away from your friends."
"Jenni," said Rhonda, choosing her words carefully. "I'd like to think that a man will live here - you have so much to give, and you'd be the first to agree that your best years of sex will be peaking. You ought to be enjoying the vitality and resultant well-being of happy sex and of course male company can be okay."
