Phylis Erfil likes to prune her bushes frequently.
Every Wednesday, just as the sun rises, she ties the thick, lilac ribbons of her straw, sunhat into a big bow under her chin. She pulls on her worn, smelly leather gloves and scoops up her shiny, secateurs. Striding out of the French doors she moves up and down her flower beds, like a spider spinning a web, watering and weeding and waiting and waiting.
Waiting to catch the flying gossip.
A door slams. Keys jangle. The web vibrates and the spider moves in.
“Good Morning Mrs Wray. How are you today?”