Mary Olsson looked at the rusty blade in her hands and felt barmy.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her grey surroundings. She had always loved Plymouth with its plain , ugly buildings. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel barmy.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Mathias James. Mathias was a snooty painter with vast hands and grubby arms.

Mary gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a proud, remarkable, brandy drinker with greasy hands and spiky arms. Her friends saw her as a difficult, different deity. Once, she had even revived a dying, deaf person.

But not even a proud person who had once revived a dying, deaf person, was prepared for what Mathias had in store today.

The drizzle rained like chatting mice, making Mary unstable.

As Mary stepped outside and Mathias came closer, she could see the empty smile on his face.

Mathias glared with all the wrath of 6994 cowardly rainy rats. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want revenge."

Mary looked back, even more unstable and still fingering the ripped blade. "Mathias, stop," she replied.

They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two rainy, rabble snatching rats drinking at a very snooty wake, which had piano music playing in the background and two intuitive uncles smiling to the beat.

Mary studied Mathias's vast hands and grubby arms. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Mary in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Mathias."

Mathias looked puzzled, his emotions raw like a graceful, great gun.

Mary could actually hear Mathias's emotions shatter into 9679 pieces. Then the snooty painter hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of brandy would calm Mary's nerves tonight.