it's a terrible thing when love turns to hate, especially so quickly. one minute the apple of her eye and the next a stinking bomb heap of japanese junk. very volatile of course, your average lady novelist. mercurial. it was the beginning of a bad time for me too, especially when she found over the phone the nice manager was in minorca, vic and don out delivering, and young jim in sole charge with his voice not quite broken said nobody knew nothing about fridges anyway, and was she sure it wasn't the swimming pool filter plant? and that was how i came to write my indignant letter. i didn't show it to mrs potter actually - you can't intrude on private grief. the post long gone as usual, i stole the car out and drove to chuddy's by hand. and a rather awful thing happened. it wasn't only a new management there but a new shopfront, notched glass and aluminium, soft lighting inside wasting valuable fuel stocks illuminating an aladdin's cave of highly assorted artifacts. the letter slot was high up on the metal door frame, that was the trouble - i put the letter through, and it hung in the air for a bit. i then saw it loop the loop, and nose dive from sight behind a mass display of electronics, never, i should think, to be seen again. to tell or not to tell, that was the question. i still hadn't decided yet when i coasted up to the potter portals, where, to my no small surprise, mrs potter was on lookout duty.

"you haven't taken it?"
"just taken it."
"oh! i called after you darling."
"did you, darling?"
"yes, because it's fine now, freezing madly, lovely ice, 4 trays. there was this bit we missed in the instruction book, being printed so big: "permitting five hours for fully cold." so it's lovely! oh i'm going to love it. aren't you, darling?"



"the small, intricate life of gerald c. potter" series 3 episode 5, "the fridge." which is not to be continued, because while the monologues are easy to transcribe the dialogues are hell. moving to the next episode, she says firmly.