Sunday was Clive’s favourite day. It was the one day where he could completely relax, forget about work and enjoy the fruits of his labours. He liked getting the chores out of the way first; today was going to be sunny and hot, climate crisis hot, so he would start off, after making some eggs Benedict for breakfast, by mowing the lawn before it got the afternoon sun. One of the fence panels needed attention, so he would finally get the tools out and fix it. He’d ask Marty if he would like to join them for a barbecue, though Marty would probably prefer to be off skateboarding or painting graffiti on bridges with his mates. Clive had stopped worrying about the graffiti some time ago. Marty was convinced he was an artist, not a vandal, and his daubings were actually rather good. At least he wasn’t caught up in some of the rather bizarre social trends Clive had begun noticing recently. After brushing his teeth, Clive made his way along the corridor to their new open plan kitchen, complete with it’s brand new Aga stove.
Mary was waiting in the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee. She was wearing a rather fetching striped halter-top dress. Clive took the proffered cup, revising his hopes of how today might turn out.
‘Sleep well, darling?’ Mary enquired, picking up some keys and her phone from the counter. Oh, looks like she’s going somewhere. That’s scotched that idea, Clive thought to himself.
‘Yes thanks’ he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Are you off out?’
‘Yes. It’s Stella’s birthday. I told you about it. We are going for cream tea in Brighton. You’ll have to sort out your own dinner, I am afraid.’
‘I was going to make eggs Benedict for breakfast. I thought we could have a barbecue’ Clive replied, putting the cup down. The coffee was tepid. He sounded slightly peeved.
‘Never mind, darling. We’ll do that next Sunday, if I’m not playing badminton. Please water the flowers, it’s going to be a scorcher.’ With a quick peck on the cheek, Mary was gone, leaving a slightly overpowering floral scent that Clive didn’t recognise wafting in the breeze of her departure.
Rather disappointed that his hoped-for family day was now destined to be one of solitude, Clive decided he would make the best of it. He put the radio on in the background and made a fresh coffee, even grinding some fresh beans to get the best possible flavour. After putting some toast in the toaster, he opened the laptop he kept on the counter in the kitchen, and was surprised to find that he had a notification from work. Why were they sending emails to his personal account, on a weekend? Feeling slightly worried, Clive opened the email.
Clive
It is with some concern that we were informed of your behaviour at last week’s launch of our latest product range. Could you kindly arrange to drop by my office on Monday.
Mx Anastasia Davies (they/them)
Clive had heard about the they/thems. Mx Davies was their new head of HR. “They” had brought two others with “them” when “they” had taken over the company HR department a few months earlier- an earnest young man who also used they/them pronouns, and a young lady with blue hair and facial piercings who appeared to prefer to remain anonymous., scuttling away if she thought anyone might get within a few feet of her. Soon after Mx Davies’ arrival, the company had featured several of their black, Asian and gay employees on company literature and in the latest product catalogue. A professional photographer had been hired, capturing many sets of white teeth smiling at the camera. Clive had been a bit surprised at this development. Nylon washers and O-rings were not exactly products that needed advertising under the guise of being“inclusive.” The best advertising for such products was to prove to the customer that they worked, were reliable, and didn’t cost too much. People bought ice-scrapers, the company’s highly successful seasonal side product, because they wanted to scrape ice off their car, not because the employees of the company that made them were of unusual sexuality or belonged to an ethic minority. Most ice-scrapers were sold sporadically at filling stations during cold snaps; they weren’t a product that needed any advertising at all, they just needed to be available at the time people wanted them.
True, one December many years ago Frank had paid a page three model who hadn’t done much for a while to pose with a selection of the company’s wares while dressed in festive clothes. Flo had been provocatively draped over a Vauxhall Astra (Frank believed in supporting British industry) dressed as an elf, in a very short skirt. Fake snow lay on the ground, nylon washers scattered like snowflakes on the bonnet around her. In her right hand Flo held The Fang, which for twenty years had outsold any other model of ice-scraper, a record in the industry; cleverly, the photographer had even made a waistband for Flo that resembled their largest and best-selling hydrogenated nitrile O-Ring. The company had until this latest campaign never done it again, not because it had upset anyone, but because it seemed rather pointless and therefore a waste of money; sales didn’t increase, but the catalogues became very popular. Apparently copies of this edition of the catalogue changed hands for large amounts of money on eBay nowadays. Frank had, in a fairly recent TV interview, rued the missed opportunity of emulating the success of the Michelin Calendar. Clive had kept a couple of catalogues, which had unexpectedly turned into small but welcome assets.
This gender thing was undoubtedly a bit different. Clive doubted that many people attracted to non-binary lesbians or gay Asians worked in businesses that used O-rings, but maybe Frank knew something he didn’t. Maybe they should make cock-rings? There was an idea, cock-rings were basically just large thick O-rings, as far as Clive knew from his very limited knowledge of gay porn. He’d suggest it to Frank since they were going all progressive.
Taking his coffee through to the lounge, Clive sat on his recliner and switched on the television. He tried to watch a documentary on YouTube about climbing K2, but the email from Mx Davies kept intruding into his thoughts. He soon realised he was no longer paying attention to the evidently envious and excitable young man narrating the documentary. Clive switched off the television and decided he would phone Mark. Mark was sound.
‘Hey Mark, how’s it going? It’s Clive.’
‘Clive! Good to hear from you mate. What’s up? Just watching the Grand Prix, bit boring to be honest.’
‘Shit, sorry mate. Should have realised. You got a minute? I was wondering if I could ask you about something?’
‘ Yeah, sure. Fire away.’
‘Did something happen at the recent product launch? Did I say something I shouldn’t have? It’s just that I’ve received an email from HR.’
‘Nothing that I can think of….though that joke you cracked about Ava didn’t go down too well.”
‘Joke? What joke? And who is Ava?’
‘Well, mate, you were a bit pissed. To be fair, most of us were. Ava is that strange girl with piercings who joined the HR department when it expanded. The one with blue hair.’
As soon as Mark mentioned Ava, Clive remembered the joke. Carla, Frank’s secretary, had mentioned that Ava was pansexual, whatever that was. Already on the whisky, Clive had quipped that he knew some people liked cooking, but he’d had no idea it was a sexual kink. There’d been a few nervous titters before the small group he’d been talking to had quietly dispersed. Carla had ignored him for the rest of the afternoon, leaving as soon as Frank’s speech was over.
‘Bloody hell. Do you think that’s what could be behind this email?’
‘No idea mate. I do know that Carla didn’t find it funny. She mentioned it to my missus at badminton yesterday. Didn’t Mary tell you?’
‘No, but she’s been a bit off with me since then. Bloody hell. It was just a stupid joke.’
‘No such thing as jokes any more, mate. You should have realised that by now. It’s all politics nowadays. Comedy is dead-just watch the BBC.’
Clive rarely watched television. Mary tended to monopolise their sixty-five inch screen, indulging in a diet of soaps, reality TV and what Clive often referred to as celebrity wank-fests.
‘Look mate, sorry to bother you. Thanks for the heads-up.’
‘No worries. Let me know how it goes.’
After the ‘phone call Clive mowed the lawn, but far from being the mind-numbing yet relaxing task he normally found it, his thoughts kept returning to the email. He decided he would call Frank. Frank had always been a fair boss, a hard-working man from the less salubrious part of Southend who had grown a small business selling fasteners and washers into a manufacturing company supplying their products throughout Europe. Frank answered on the third ring. He didn’t sound too happy at being disturbed.
‘Clive? You know I don’t like being called on Sundays. It’s my only me time. What is it?’
‘Hi Frank. Really sorry to call you. I was just wondering why I’ve received an email from HR. On my personal email. Is it that joke I told at the launch?’
‘Yes it is. I’ll be straight with you, Clive. You’ve been a prat. Your joke was utterly stupid. No-one found it funny, and all it has done is cause me grief. You should know better. Now I’m getting it in the neck from HR. They want you to attend some diversity training, and I’m going to have to pay for it in lost productivity. Anastasia is now talking about everyone in the company doing it, so I’m going to lose hours of productive work just so that we can tick some boxes. I can’t say no, because we’ve signed up with Inclusive Companies.’
‘Inclusive companies? What on Earth is that?’
‘It’s an organisation that gives out awards for diversity, inclusion and equity. Two of the water companies we supply are members, and they recently sent out an email saying they are looking at how inclusive their suppliers are. It’s how things work nowadays. I can’t say I’m totally on board with it, but we have to keep with the times.’ Frank had used this phrase before.
‘Keep with the times? We’re already one of the most diverse employers in the area. Look at our work force for fucks sake. We’re more diverse than the Premier League. It’s all a load of airy-fairy bollocks, Frank, and you know it. We sell washers and O-rings, for fucks sake. I guess that we can say we’re inclusive because the O-rings are black and the washers are white, hey? Or are we going to switch to black nylon for the washers to be even more inclusive? Maybe some rainbow ones while we’re at it? How about cock rings? Why aren’t we making cock-rings while we’re pandering to the deviant minorities? That’s actually a good idea, by the way. We’ve already got the tooling.’
Silence. He could imagine Frank holding the ‘phone at arms length, as he often did when he thought the person at the other end of the line was being stupid or unreasonable. If anyone else was in the room with him, he’d be jabbing his other hand at the phone and raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth in exaggerated mock surprise. Clive knew he should shut up, but there was an angry voice in his head that just wouldn’t let him stop.“You’re letting people with blue hair, nonsensical sexual proclivities and facial piercings dictate how you’re running your business? Have you gone soft?”
‘Now hang on Clive, that’s totally uncalled for. It’s not my fault that you’re a fucking dinosaur. Wind your fucking neck in.’
‘Dinosaur? You’d have pissed yourself laughing at all this nonsense just two years ago.’
‘Listen, Clive, and pay close attention. I’m not letting some jumped up fucking machinist talk to me like that. You’d still be on the factory floor if I hadn’t brought you into management. Maybe that was a mistake. Now, take a few days off, cool the fuck down, and we’ll get you in later this week to speak to HR. For fuck’s sake, your joke wasn’t even funny. You will apologise to Anastasia and Ava for your ill-considered and quite frankly pathetic joke before doing whatever course they say is necessary to put the matter to bed. At the end of the course you will tell them how wonderful it was and how inclusive you now feel. OK? Now goodbye, I’ve got a Sunday to have off.’ With a click, the ‘phone went dead.
Clive sat for a while in the kitchen wondering what had just happened. How stupid to get Frank riled. Frank was proud of his moniker of “Frank by name, Frank by nature.” At least you always knew where you stood with him, and it was obvious that Frank was not happy with his product development manager at the moment. What a dick I am, Clive thought. The half-full bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter caught his eye. Fuck it, my Sunday is already a disaster, he thought to himself. I may as well just get pissed. He took a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a large shot. To go with the bourbon, he switched on the bluetooth speakers, connected his phone, and scrolled to find BB King’s album There Must be a Better World Somewhere. That was the album for today. The blues always settled him down, eventually.
Half an hour later, Clive had finished the Jack Daniels and started on Mary’s gin. His mood was improving, things didn’t seem quite so bad now. It was actually quite funny, really. He’d noticed this thing everyone called ‘woke’ slowly becoming more prominent in everyday life, but had dismissed it as a passing fad. Marty sometimes mentioned it, commenting one day that he’d lost a few of his university friends to the culture wars, but overall he seemed to view it all with a detached amusement. Marty was far more interested in his art than people, anyway. Clive wished Marty was home now, so he could talk to him about it. He should have asked Marty to explain it all a while ago. What was actually going on? Was there something behind it all apart from trendiness and fashion? Just kids being kids? Students being students?
Clive opened his laptop, and for the first time in months looked on Facebook. His sister had posted some more pictures of her garden. His old friend Steve was on holiday in Greece, and had just posted some pictures of his lunch. Someone wanted him to adopt a donkey in Croatia, and a company in Saudi Arabia was advertising something the called The Line, which was a 170km long, 500 metre high skyscraper that apparently had ‘equitable views’. Clive had been to Saudi Arabia on a business trip, and equity had not seemed very visible. Perhaps it had been modestly covered so as not to risk offending him. He almost posted this thought. No, he really didn’t want to start posting on Facebook again. He’d not been on much since Frank had mentioned one day a few years before that perhaps this social media stuff was best left to those who understood it’s dangers better, or those that didn’t need to work for a living.
Soon bored with pictures of pets, clickbait memes, selfies, self-help gurus and recipes for vegan snacks or happiness, Clive opened a browser and looked up the organisation Frank had mentioned, Inclusive Companies, on Google. He’d not been told that they’d signed up for this, and felt a bit miffed at being left out. The website didn’t look particularly impressive, in fact it looked like a far cheaper production than their own site. In the About section, in gold capital letters, was the declaration that they were ‘The Premier Cross Industry Network Harnessing Best Practices & Innovation to Drive Inclusion For All’. Wow. OK. Clive clicked on the link to Members, and sure enough, two of the water companies they supplied were listed in the rather plain looking tiles displayed. Much to Clive’s surprise, also listed were eight police forces, M15 and M16 (unironically titling themselves on a public website as The Secret Intelligence Service), and the UK Atomic Energy Authority. It looked like this inclusion stuff was far more widespread than he’d imagined, Clive thought to himself, chuckling as he imagined nuclear scientists in space suits discussing the gender of quarks. He was so amused by this thought that he decided to look it up, just in case. To his disappointment, his search didn’t bring up any bisexual particles, but it did bring up a link to an article by a rather scary-looking drag queen called Amrou Al-khadi. Glamrou (her stage name) claimed that “If subatomic particles defy constructs all the time, why should we believe in fixed constructs of gender or any kind of reality?” The article went on to explain how quantum physics was proof that gender is a social construct. “Though I’m not disputing the scientific fact of genitals” Glamrou continued, “it is this obsession with sex as a biological endgame that erases the infinite scientific and social permutations between us all.”
This inclusion stuff was looking far crazier than Clive had ever given it credit for. Whatever next? Transgender animals? He looked it up. Sure enough, apparently some lizards and fish, the colobus monkey and the spotted hyena all displayed identical behaviour to humans who were convinced they were the opposite sex. It certainly was sounding like gender wasn’t what it used to be. Clive decided to look up gender itself. He’d go straight to the definitive authority on the English language, the Oxford English Dictionary. As soon as the search loaded, he realised how out of date he was. At the top of the page, in bold type, was written “The state of being male or female as expressed by social or cultural distinctions and differences, rather than biological ones; the collective attributes or traits associated with a particular sex, or determined as a result of one’s sex. Also: a (male or female) group characterized in this way.” Clive tried to think back to what he’d imagined the word gender to mean when he was at school. He was pretty sure it had meant girl or boy. Some girls were a bit boyish and some boys were a bit girly. Some were gay, and yes, there had been discrimination in those days. Rug munchers and poofs. But Clive couldn’t even remember when he’d last met a homophobe, or a man who wouldn’t cook. Another search showed that even the World Health Organisation was in on it, defining gender as a “person’s deeply felt, internal and individual experience of gender, which may or may not correspond to the person’s physiology or designated sex at birth.” What did that even mean?
Clive took a swig of gin. Teddy the imaginatively named miniature teddy bear, perched on his corner shelf in the kitchen, seemed to be looking at him in a disapproving manner. Mary had kept the bear there since it it had been given to her by Marty on her birthday several years before. For some reason, it had always given him the creeps, with it’s puckered mouth and stony black eyes. With a wry chuckle, Clive realised he’d always thought of Teddy as male. He’d been a complete bigot and assumed a stuffed toys gender! He started laughing, so hard that he got a stitch in his side. He slid sideways of the stool, just catching himself in time with one foot, almost slipping into one of those whirly episodes he remembered from his youth, where you end up on the floor with people looking down at you asking “Ok, dude?”
‘Here’s to gender!’ Clive raised his glass to Teddy. ‘Are you a guy or a girl?’ Clive took the teddy bear from the shelf and placed it on the counter in front of him. ‘Maybe you’re not sure? Are you a they/them? Don’t worry, little bear. I’m sure you’ll work it out one day. Shame you’ve had your bits chopped off before you found out. Let’s drink to diversity, inclusion and equity.’ Clive finished the gin in his glass, nearly retching as the fumes got up his nose.
A noise that sounded like an electronic drip caused Clive to turn his head. Closing one eye, he saw that a notification had popped up. Facebook. By now he’d drunk half a bottle of Jack Daniels and was well on his way into a bottle of gin. He was feeling far better than he had earlier; BB King always did that. Clive clicked on the notification. Just another bloody ad. Why was he getting notifications for advertisements? Ah, another one. This one was from the local neighbourhood watch group, which had been quite active recently, since the break-in at number 33 a few weeks ago. The post was from C Barrow. Quelle surprise. Colin, the weird guy who lived alone at number 28. Colin suffered from an overactive imagination, often posting that he’d just heard a noise and was scared he was about to be attacked. Most of the street had attended a phantom burglary at one time or another. Mary thought Colin was just seeking attention; he evidently didn’t have any friends, as they’d never seen any visitors. Initially they’d felt quite sorry for him, until they’d realised they didn’t want to be Colin’s friends either.
Mary had recently told Clive that Colin’s surname wasn’t actually Barrow; he was too scared to publish his real surname online in case someone cloned his identity. You could choose better identities to clone, Clive had pointed out. Clive himself had gone round one night after a panicky post on the group to find Colin hiding behind his sofa, terrified out of his wits by a cat that was rooting around in his shed because Colin had forgotten to eat his tuna sandwich in there the day before when he’d been polishing his bicycle. Clive had tried to reassure him, had even advised him to get help or maybe a dog. Colin hadn’t taken kindly to this advice. Since then, Colin had posted several snide comments about people not understanding how dangerous it was being a gay man in a heterosexual world. Colin had called the police one night when two Jehovah’s Witnesses had turned up at his door one evening. According to a tabloid, Colin had described them as “sinister, shifty; I think they were probably after my pension.” Strangely, Colin also seemed to be of the opinion that he was in danger of suddenly being found irresistibly attractive by previously strictly heterosexual males: he had confided in Mary one night that his greatest fear was of being raped. When Clive pointed out how unlikely this was, that it was doubtful that even gay men found him attractive, Mary had scolded him. Colin was just a sensitive soul, she said. Mary had even implied that Clive was being homophobic, a rather ridiculous accusation considering they visited Clive’s old friend Peter and and his partner Marcus in their villa in Spain at least once a year, and Clive had been best man at their wedding. The stag night he’d organised was still legendary, making Clive a lifelong honorary gay according to Peter.
The Facebook post informed the neighbourhood that Colin had just seen a suspicious looking character walking around the estate.This suspicious character was now walking boldly up his drive, in broad daylight. Better have a look just in case, Clive thought. He went into the lounge and stood next to the coffee table looking out of the window, swaying slightly from heel to ball of feet. To his surprise, he actually could see someone outside Colin’s house, looking through the side window into the kitchen. In his hands was a large box. On the road was parked a UPS delivery van. For fucks sake, Colin had been terrified by a parcel delivery! It’s not like he couldn’t have been expecting it.
Back in the kitchen, Clive picked up his ‘phone. It was time Colin got help or pulled himself together, he told Teddy. Crying wolf could seriously backfire on him should an actual burglar break in to his house. The neighbours, Carl and Sarah, had told Clive and Mary that they already completely ignored anything that Colin posted on the group. Teddy stared blankly back at Clive as he wondered whether he could be bothered to call Colin to tell him that the man he was terrified of was trying to deliver a parcel that Colin had no doubt forgotten he’d ordered. Clive was too drunk now to venture outside. Maybe he was too drunk to phone. Then he had an idea. Giggling childishly to himself, he composed a new post on the group chat. Taking a full frontal picture of Teddy, Clive captioned it with “Some people need to grow a pair.” Hesitating a moment, he then posted it on the watch group. Ten minutes later, the alcohol finally catching up with him, he passed out on the sofa, BB King still playing the blues.
Clive was woken by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Groggily, he sat up, wiping spittle that had been dribbling out of the side of his mouth while he slept, squinting against the sun now blazing through the lounge window. Mary had probably forgotten her keys again. He was desperate for a piss.
‘Hang on. Be with you in a minute’ Clive shouted, then went to the downstairs bathroom. Looking in the mirror as he left the bathroom, he realised he looked a bit of a state. He still felt quite drunk, though a hangover was beginning to impose itself. He splashed some water on his face, tucked in his shirt, and went to the door. The clock in the lounge showed he had probably been asleep for less than an hour. Standing on the front step were two policemen, both in their mid-twenties. One was short and ginger with freckles, the other a bit taller and a bit overweight.
‘Mr Grogan?’
‘Yes? What’s up? It it my wife? Has something happened?’ Clive could feel panic rising.
‘Your wife? No, we have had a complaint about you. A serious complaint.’
‘A complaint? What are you talking about? I’ve been at home all day.’
‘We’ve had a complaint that you made a transphobic post on Facebook this afternoon. We need to check the thinking behind this post.’
‘Check my thinking? Are you serious? You mean the picture of the teddy bear? How the fuck is that transphobic? I didn’t mention anyone by name. It’s a fucking teddy bear. I’m presuming that’s what you’re referring to?’
‘No need to swear. A young lady called us and informed us that you posted this after they had become alarmed by a suspicious person on their property.’
The cop held out his mobile phone with a screenshot of Clive’s post displayed on the screen.
‘Suspicious person? You mean the UPS guy who was trying to deliver a parcel? Colin is always thinking he’s about to be attacked. He’s paranoid. And what young lady are you referring to? As far as I know, Colin lives alone.’
‘Misgendering is a hate crime, you do realise that? And dead-naming someone is incredibly disrespectful. It’s probably a hate-crime too, but I’ll have to look that up. You’re already in enough trouble for your transphobic post.’
‘Dead naming? What the fuck are you talking about?’ This was all getting a bit surreal. A bit 1984, Clive thought to himself. ‘Do you people even study the law at police college, or do you just make it up as you go along? What are you doing here? You never even bothered turning up when poor Fred got burgled.’
‘We are here to ask you to accompany us to the station, sir. It would be better for all of us if you just came down the station voluntarily, but we will arrest you here if necessary.’
‘Arrest me? Under what grounds?’
‘You have committed a hate crime. You have caused someone great distress.’
‘You’re having a laugh.”
For the first time, Clive noticed the police car parked at the end of the drive. It was painted in rainbow colours, looking rather jolly and incongruous in the evening sunshine. ‘I guess it’s appropriate that you turned up in a clown car. No way I’m getting in that. What a fucking joke!’
The ginger cop walked backwards and muttered something into the microphone attached to the front of his knife-proof vest.
‘Are you coming peacefully, or are we going to have to use force?’ the plump cop asked.
‘So tell me again how my post was transphobic? Has Colin become Colleen or something?’ Colin asked, addressing the plump cop.
‘So you obviously were aware of her gender. You do realise this makes all you’ve said previously even more incriminating?’
Clive couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the absurdity of it. This was getting truly ridiculous. Was it really happening? All he wanted to do was go to bed. It had been quite a day.
‘Look, officer. It’s Sunday, I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed. I’ll come down the station tomorrow if you insist. Now, can you please get in your clown car and go back to the circus? I’ve had a bit of a day.’
The sound of sirens approaching stopped the policeman from answering. Iver his shoulder, Colin saw three more police cars pulling into the close, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Clive tried to get back in the house and close the door, but the fat bastard cop grabbed his wrist and spun him round. Another cop rushed from one of the cars that had just pulled up to assist him.
Mary turned up just as Clive, face down on the driveway with bits of gravel stuck to his face, was being handcuffed from behind by the plump cop, another cop with his knee on Clive’s back. Four police cars, lights still flashing, were parked on the road. Mary had been forced to park several houses down due to the police cars blocking the close. Five cops watched as the other three picked Clive up and hustled him towards the rainbow car. Two kids on BMX bikes were filming it all on their mobile phones, and Mary could see virtually everyone on the street peering out of their lounge windows. No doubt this would be all over Facebook and Instagram tomorrow, and then some tabloid online edition would most likely get hold of the video.
Clive looked towards Mary, who appeared rather flustered. ‘Hi darling. It’s not been the best of days. Maybe you could find me a lawyer?’
‘Clive!’ Mary exclaimed. “What have you done, you idiot! How embarrassing!’
With that, she rushed to the road and tried to grab one of the kid’s phones. The kid cycled a short way then carried on filming. Mary turned round, pushed past two of the cops and went into the house. The kid left his bike and wandered over towards Clive, filming as he went. His lips were moving. It looked like the little shit was narrating a commentary. Everyone’s a fucking artist, nowadays, Clive thought. As Clive was driven off in the rainbow police car, he realised that he hadn’t watered the flowers. They’d no doubt all be wilting, perhaps dead. It had been a scorcher. It would have been a great day for a barbecue.
