“Mum, the lawn gnomes are moving.”

“What, Mika? We don’t…” The kettle’s impertenent blare interrupted her thought. More ritual than conscious effort, Hattie made tea, nothing exotic or fancy, just tea. Such was her lot in life, an inescapable rejoinder in her mind to most of daily life.

“Mum,” the tiny voice reiterated, “the lawn gnomes are moving…closer.”

“Oh Mika, don’t be…” She paused, then, “Sweetie, we don’t have lawn gnomes. Your father thought they’re a quaint but equally low class alternative to pink, plastic flamingos.”

“I wouldn’t say that to them. They look like angry gnomes.”

“Honestly boy, you and that imagination…” Having approached the window, tea in hand, Hattie stopped mid-sentence at the sight of a half dozen tiny men in pointy hats traversing the lawn with small implements of destruction and a purposeful air.

“You’ve dropped your tea, mum.”

“I suppose I have.”

“Mummy, are you scared?”

“Little bit, sweetie. A little bit.”

“Wishing dad was still about?”

“Not really.”