Penny, thirty-three, beautiful and neighbourly, was trying to hold back tears as she pegged out the washing, which she did every Tuesday and Friday at 6pm.
‘Oh,’ she sobbed quietly to herself, ‘if only there was someone who could comfort me. I am so distraught, although I do a good job of hiding it and you’d have to be very attuned to the subtle details of my daily routine to realise.’
Just then, her husband, whose name isn't really important, came out of the house. Swinging his grotesque muscly arms by his side, he walked stupidly over to Penny.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked like an idiot. Penny dabbed at her hazel-brown (with flecks of green (although it would only be possible to tell from a distance with a good-quality telescope in the right lighting)) eyes with the hem of a summer dress which, had she been wearing it, would have made her look like an angel as she took the bins out on Thursdays.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, her voice like a spring meadow. ‘I just wish there was someone who could look after me better than you do. Someone who really cares for me. Someone with a comprehensive knowledge of optics and a good vantage point.’