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Sure enough, when they painted the shells of unfortunate females with the chemical, penises sprouted and grew to alarming lengths.
    â€˜ “The sex change females cannot mate, and die painfully if they do before the transformation as their new penises block the ovary ducts where their eggs go on growing inside them until they explode.” ’
    Alison stood up.
    â€˜This is terrible,’ she said.
    He realised that it was. He’d only intended to use the first paragraph. As he read on, he realised that it was an utterly disastrous introduction to the advantages of having a sex change.
    She went to the window, which afforded an excellent view of number thirty-eight opposite, its mock-Tudor frontage glowing in the sad sodium light of an autumn evening in Throdnall. She noticed that the window frames needed painting. She wondered if the Parkers were over-stretching themselves financially. Anything to give her emotions a breathing space as they fought to respond to this extraordinary development.
    She would not make things easy for him. She decided to pretend deep outrage on behalf of the whelks, and, to be fair to her, although she couldn’t be described as a whelk lover, she did feel sorry for the poor bemused molluscs.
    She turned away from the window at last.
    â€˜Those poor whelks,’ she said.
    â€˜For God’s sake shut up about the whelks,’ he said. Yes, he knew it was ridiculous. She didn’t need to say, ‘Well, you started it.’ Her angry look said it for her. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the whelks can go fuck themselves.’
    They were both amazed to hear Nick use the f-word. Normally he hated it. He regarded its constant repetition as evidence of extreme paucity of imagination. The kitchen staff mocked him for it, though not to his face.
    â€˜Fuck themselves? That’s the only thing the wretched sods can do, you callous bastard!’ yelled Alison. She poured out her anger on him, her anger at being upstaged, her fury that he had got in first, her frustration that her intentions had been trumped. She approached him and for a moment he thought that she was going to hit him. He flinched.
    â€˜Those poor creatures – forced to live their lives on beaches between the high and low tide marks while we’re swanning off to Majorca – the scientists discover the paint is destroying their sex lives, so what do they do? Ban the paint? No! They paint more whelks. Bastards!’
    He had rarely seen Alison so angry, and all about whelks!
    â€˜They have to be cruel to some whelks in the short term in order to be kind to other whelks in the long term,’ he said. He knew that he was sounding more absurd by the minute. He felt that they might go on and on arguing about whelks for ever.
    She moved away. He swallowed. He’d have to abandon whelks and start all over again.
    And at that moment Bernie shuffled in. His white designer stubble looked ridiculous at seventy-seven. There was an egg stain on the front of his shirt.
    â€˜I’m not interrupting, am I?’ he asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. (Typical, thought Nick. He never waits for an answer. God, he drives me mad. I must remind myself to remain aware of other people when I grow old.) ‘Only she wants a cuppa, and we’re out of tea-bags.’
    They had facilities in the granny flat, but he ran out of things deliberately, so as to have an excuse for company.
    â€˜Only Doctor Rodgerson said to her, “Marjorie, you should get as much liquid running through you as you can. Flush those insides out.” I’m hoping the
Nine O’Clock News’ll
send her to sleep. Last night John Major was defending the morality of the government, bless him, and she dropped off nicely.’
    Alison went into the new kitchen. It was a friendly affair with free-standing wooden units. It had been designed by her and built by ‘Cuisines de Throdnall. It was attractive and user