They’d known each for ages or so it seemed.

“Only me,” was Hilda’s calling card.

Rosemary wearily unlatched the security locks and let her in.

“I brung you a slice of my apple pie, it was lovely it was.”

Rosemary smiled, and took the hint, putting the kettle on with a flick of a switch.

“Oh did I say, I was talking with someone whom shall remain nameless and he said something very interesting indeed. ”

Rosemary flinched, as though mildly electrocuted.

“Well they said that the reason the recycling bin hasn’t been emptied is because the reminder weren’t returned.”

Rosemary felt a sharp twinge in the back of her neck; her obsession was now manifesting physical symptoms.

“Anyway,” Hilda blithely continued, “You and me can go to the next residents meeting and put our point across.”

Each error was another small knife wound, her whole body had become a pincushion, Caesar’s knives were reigning down on her and she knew she had to stay calm.

“I have to go out Hilda, please excuse me.” Rosemary made her way to the front door but Hilda stepped in front of her.

“I reckon they think you and I are just old busy bodies.” Hilda announced.

That should have been the end of it really, if only Rosemary hadn’t received such terrible news that morning, if only her mood hadn’t been reduced to a deathly blackness. If only she didn’t have such a fixation for punctuation and grammar, if only the iron hadn’t been in such easy reach.

But you can’t live in a world of if onlys, and poor Hilda can’t live at all. Not now that the machine’s been switched off, tut, tut, Rosemary’s mother was right all along when she said.

“You shouldn’t be such a stickler my girl, it’ll be the ruin of you, just mark my words.”