David and Gilly were watching TV on Saturday afternoon. David sat in his battered arm chair, Gilly curled on the sofa, her knees still flexible in contrast to her years and arthritic hands.

“What's this?” David said impatiently. He fumbled with the remote control, changing channels, searching. “I thought The Paramedics was on. Paramedics and then motor racing.”

Gilly held out her hand. “Give us the TV guide. They’ll have printed the listings for the wrong region, or something. Have to look in the small print at the bottom...”

He passed over the magazine and she leafed through the pages. “Oh look, Burghley Horse Trials are on at half past three, you'll want to watch that.”

“Ground'll be sloppy won't it, after all this rain … ”

“Down near Lincolnshire or somewhere, isn’t it? Always wet in them Fens.”

They argued about where Burghley was and after five minutes agreed it was somewhere in the south. David took back his TV guide, and started to laugh.

“Gilly, you silly old bat, that's Sunday's programmes, Burghley isn't on till tomorrow.”

He resorted to flicking through the channels once more and settled, with a pleased sigh, on Chinese dancers, aerial acrobats and singers all performing against a background of fireworks in a huge circular stadium.

“Silly old bat yourself,” said Gilly. “You meant The Paralympics!”