Narrow Margins by Marie Browne Page B

went into the bathroom to find a mirror and remove the incredible amount of horror-film-type gore that had plastered itself to my forehead; we had muesli for breakfast.
    About an hour later, the rain had abated enough for Geoff to don a normal coat and head us off toward Bugbrooke. We took turns at the tiller for about an hour each while the other either tried to unpack some more boxes, or blackmail Sam to come out of the half-emptied box.
    As it was lock-free, the morning passed with very little of note. The countryside would have been pretty if it hadn’t been sulking under grey skies and moisture-laden air. The weather couldn’t make up its mind so it stayed in limbo – one of those classic English days that just sits there and, imitating a lot of people, irritates you with its indecision and grey apathy.
    At about one o’clock we pulled into Bugbrooke. Geoff had noted from his map that about a mile away, in the village itself, was a small shop where we should be able to replenish our dwindling stock of fresh food and, we hoped, obtain a can opener, thus enabling access to our huge stock of canned goods which weren’t dwindling at all. Now that I was terrified of losing a limb and had condemned the hob, we were really down to microwave meals which was far from ideal.
    The walk from the canal into the village was pleasant and refreshing. Sam, denied a steady downpour in which to get wet, made up for it by leaping gleefully from puddle to puddle.
    The village shop was quaint, pretty and utterly devoid of anything remotely resembling real food, so settling on sausage rolls for lunch we spent a fruitless 15 minutes searching through their freezer for microwave meals that at least paid lip service to nutrition. We failed, and began a new search for ‘just possibly edible’. Carrying our basket of fake food and chemicals, we wandered dispiritedly up to the counter.
    â€˜Do you have a can opener?’ Geoff asked. The girl behind the counter glanced up and waved vaguely to the far right corner.
    â€˜Hmm, over there,’ she muttered.
    â€˜We found the place where they should be but there was just an empty space,’ Geoff explained.
    â€˜Oh well, probably not then,’ she started ringing up our goods.
    â€˜Do you think you might have one out the back?’ I prompted.
    â€˜What? Oh no, we won’t,’ she went back to her till.
    â€˜Do you know where we might get one?’ I asked, through rapidly gritting teeth.
    â€˜No,’ she said, without looking up.
    â€˜So there’s no one here that knows where we can get a can opener?’
    â€˜No.’
    I opened my mouth to say more but Geoff trod on my foot. Heaving a sigh that I hoped spoke volumes about poor customer service, I gave up and wandered back down the aisle to look for more plasters.
    Being unsure of the state of Happy’s water tank, we had elected to drink bottled water and were going through it at an alarming rate. Five litres lasted us about two days; admittedly we were also cooking with it, cleaning our teeth with it and making vast amounts of tea and coffee. We had purchased the shop’s entire stock of bottled water; unfortunately this meant that Geoff had to carry it, as, when I tried to lift the rucksack we’d packed the ten bottles into, I failed. Geoff, of course, lifted it with ease and took two of the bags of shopping. I still think he had it easy, I had one bag of shopping and Sam, who, like the little yellow bird from the Peanuts cartoon, finds it impossible to move in a straight line. It doesn’t matter in which direction you walk, he is always a quarter-step in front of you, causing you to side-step or stop suddenly as he bends over to look at something interesting on the ground. I honestly don’t know how he does it.
    After about a quarter of a mile of this strange, slow, whirling progression of Sam walking and Geoff and I dancing around behind him while trying