The iris surrounding the pupil of the eyeball was an intense blue. It was the sort of blue you saw in a poster in a travel shop window - the kind depicting a paradise. It didn’t match his other eye, but he popped it in all the same. It was his lucky eyeball, the one that always got him the girls.

The coffee in the mug had been there so long, it had gone bad. Flecks of green mould dotted the dark surface, and moved sluggishly as he swirled it around. Didn’t smell too bad, though.

He flicked the crumbs off the newspaper and turned to page three, pausing as if to memorize its contents.  Next, the sports.  Flick through, flick through, done. He checked to make sure he hadn’t missed any messages on his mobile, then he got ready to leave. Jacket, hair, wallet, keys.

Out the door, and about a mile walk down to the pub. Wednesday night. Usually the bird, Mary, behind the bar. He ought to take his Jaguar XJ6 - that had been known to flutter a few skirts! Forest green, G-reg, a connoisseur’s classic.  But it was due in the garage in the morning. Cars were like beautiful women. Expensive - yes - but with the right lubricant you’ll soon have them purring on the road beneath you. He hadn’t driven his in a while, mind. Anyway, it was a nice night.

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