It was raining on the moors. Ted was peering through his binoculars at a hawk. Suddenly Sylvia appeared. She nudged the binoculars aside and kissed Ted, drawing blood.

“Ouch!” said Ted, but in a manly way.

“Talk to me about boots and Fascism, Ted” said Sylvia.

“That hawk I were watching,” said Ted, “That’s a Fascist.”

“It’s not wearing boots,” said Sylvia.

She kissed Ted again, drawing more blood, and walked off to the cottage.

Later, done with hawk-watching through binoculars, Ted joined her.

“What’s thee doing, lass?” he asked, gruffly.

Sylvia looked up at him.

“I am knitting boots for the hawk,” said Sylvia, in domestic bliss.

Ted stared out of the window into the rain.