‘Did I tell you that I saw Simon yesterday?’ Mr Horsewill asked. ‘Did you?’ ‘Yes, in the high street. He started telling me about how his daughter is now at university, and after she had the...’ Mrs Horsewill stopped listening. Mr and Mrs Horsewill were about a hundred and twenty years old between them and were roughly the same age. They looked startlingly similar and, without conferring, their attire was often coherent. They had been lucky enough to earn enough money during their working careers to facilitate taking an early retirement six months previously. Mr Horsewill had hoped to write poetry during the time he now had spare, although he hadn’t found much inspiration of late. He knew that he wanted to write about the interference of the wind on a tree, and the way it affects its leaves. He had a vague idea about a message being passed along from one leaf to another, but other than that, nothing. Mrs Horsewill, sensing from the altered tone of her husband’s murmurings that a question was approaching, resumed listening. ‘…and then he asked me if I’d used the razor he bought me yet. Did I ever tell you about that? His wife indicated that he hadn’t. ‘Ah well, he got me this lovely razor for my birthday, similar to the one my father used to have, Wilkinson Sword…very good. He says it’s one of those ones that when you use it, you can really see the strip it makes across your face. So yes, I mean I absolutely have every intention of using it one day.’
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