One Year At A Time - Year 1

 

YEAR ONE POINT FIVE – THE NEXT SIX MONTHS

Please ensure you’ve read One Year At A Time – Year 1 before reading this (also available). If you don’t, you’ll be confused….

The Story So Far

As the New Year begins, let’s reflect for a moment on the highs and lows of the previous year. My estranged husband Trevelyan has completed his jail sentence for possession of drugs with intent to supply. He’s served divorce papers and moved out. I have no interest in where he’s living now. If he thinks he’s getting 50% of the value of the house as a minimum settlement he will be disappointed.

My daughter, Abigail (15), is still missing. The police believe she’s with a travelling circus somewhere in Europe, but I don’t think trees are being pulled up in an effort to locate her. It’s obvious my son Reggie (4), is struggling in the absence of his father and big sister.

The house next door, formerly occupied by Gavin, remains unsold after his rapid departure in November. No-one but me knows the part I played in hastening this, but after he failed to heed warnings I inadvertently received on his behalf from some bad people he would seem to have upset in some way, I felt it important to take decisive action for my own safety.

I’ve met Liam, an accommodating estate agent charged with selling Gavin’s property. He would appear to be more interested in me than selling the place, which is flattering but not professional. I’m twenty years older than him, and whilst the attention is great after being ignored for so long I have no intention of getting seriously involved with anyone right now. He’s an estate agent with benefits. I don’t know if that’s a contradiction in terms.

I’m a single parent, and I need to earn money. With all this in mind, the big news is that I’ve decided to revert to the job I did when I met Trevelyan all those years ago. I was a very good Dominatrix back in the day, though I say so myself, and the potential nowadays is enormous. I just need to ensure I stay under the radar to avoid upsetting the neighbours.

January

Reggie told me he couldn’t wait to get back to Nursery after the Christmas break. Is that a sad reflection on a fractured family unit or an innocent condemnation of my parenting skills? No idea. I didn’t take it personally as I couldn’t wait for him to return. I want to concentrate on my revived career, so on balance my parenting skills probably need work…. which is highly unlikely to be happening any time soon.

Abigail still texts me a lot. In fact, the frequency of her seemingly happy messages to me has been increasing lately. Frustratingly, it is impossible for me to respond to them. Every time I do my reply is blocked with the words ‘unable to deliver your message’ appearing on my screen. See comments about career revival above.

Contacted Trevelyan. Pointed out his son would like to know he still exists. Reply received not encouraging; agree to the divorce and I’ll think about it. What a bastard! I reminded him of certain photographs in my possession. I also threatened to make public some interesting letters I knew he would prefer stayed hidden. That took the wind out of his sails. I am now of the opinion the divorce proceedings will stall.

He did, however, indicate the mortgage has not been paid since his arrest and subsequent prison sentence, citing inability due to lack of money. If this is true, rather than just a spiteful comment, a nasty letter from the Building Society is surely expected soon. The mortgage is in joint names so I can’t easily wriggle out of my share of responsibility.

And what of my new/old job? It’s all going very well. With assistance from some contacts from the old days, I now have a glitzy website with suitably vague personal details and a wholly new, VPN-enabled internet address for customers to use to contact me privately and securely. I went online late last year offering my specialist services and business is already booming.

In many ways I’m very proud to be able to do this. It’s nice to be back in the saddle, especially if the saddle is attached to the back of one of my clients at the time and I’m issuing instructions or using something to make them move. Usually quickly and unexpectedly.

Unlike before, however, when I worked from a centre of town location, I am now either working from home or mobile. I thought that offering the alternative of visiting the homes of clients was likely to prove popular…..even if some of the more esoteric items to be found in my basement dungeon are sadly unavailable for logistical reasons.

A percentage of my normal working day is likely to be spent either at or travelling to or from the address of one or more of my new clients. Yes, I appreciate there are a number of dangers involved, but given the very personal nature of what I offer and the fact I have employed a more than competent assistant who accompanies me at all times, I feel my safety isn’t at all compromised.

Anna, my assistant in this new venture, is someone I’ve known since I first got into the industry. She, like me, fell for one of her clients and left the industry but, unlike me, she is still in that relationship. We keep in touch, so when I decided to return I asked her if she’d be interested in joining me.

She jumped at the chance. As we are both mothers with youngish children to look after, the prospect of working hours to suit appealed tremendously. Also, Anna has a client-list from the old days which could prove useful if the website fails to deliver.

And the clincher is Anna’s mixed martial arts capability. I don’t know if there are achievement levels in mixed martial arts, but she must have the equivalent of black belts in judo. I’ve seen her sorting out a few problems over the years with people twice her size and am happy to confirm I feel safe in her company. She has a certain talent I respect.

I have a number of new clients and, pleasingly, some who remember me from the old days. I must have left a good impression mentally as well as physically. Whilst a few years have elapsed since I last did this kind of thing professionally, one doesn’t tend to forget the basics. Or indeed some of the more intricate arrangements.

I must confess I have put a few pounds on since the old days. Some of my costumes are chafing a bit and causing me a little discomfort. If I try to lose some weight, I will be experiencing a form of torture rather than my clients, and I wouldn’t be able to charge for it. Therefore, it’s a no-brainer. I’m looking to update and expand my wardrobe.

Unexpectedly, I’ve realised how much I love shooting my air rifle. To my immense surprise, I seem to have a good eye too. There was a squirrel in the back garden stealing nuts from the bird feeders. It was oblivious to my shouts to go away so I aimed the air rifle at it and fired. Result – one dead squirrel, removed to the composter before Reggie’s return from Nursery. There was hardly any sound when I fired, so no interest from nosey neighbours. And no Firearms Certificate is needed either! It felt really good too, which troubles me slightly.

Despite the reduced selling price to attract a quick buyer, Gavin’s vacant property next door remains for sale. I’m fine with that for the moment, although I may need to contact Liam at some point to try to speed up the process and take out some of the personal sexual frustrations I’m feeling at present. At least I don’t have to take extra care when accepting clients at home.

February

This may surprise you, but anonymity and peace and quiet are things I cherish dearly. I admit they don’t square with my chosen career but I improvise. When I see clients I’m already in costume and wearing a mask so I’m unrecognisable. The clients know they should only speak when permitted, so there’s no small talk. Other than occasional screams, me issuing instructions and the sounds of work-related equipment in use, it’s a silent environment.

Thinking about it now, by the time the session is ended my clients are not normally particularly talkative or focusing properly anyway. I insist on advance payment for this very reason. I don’t tend to stay around to check, but I’d not be doing my job properly if they weren’t fully overwhelmed by events. And I never get my hands dirty. I always wear gloves.

Anyway, I mention all this as the last thing I want to do after work at the moment is socialise. I take my maternal responsibilities with Reggie very seriously even though I’m not great at it, given the obvious failure I have proved to be as a mother to Abigail.

Add to this the fact I don’t consider it prudent for my children or, indeed, friends and neighbours to be aware of my revived career and you can hopefully understand why my need for privacy is important. In any event, discussing what I do for a living with anyone socially is completely impossible, even if I wanted to do so. Which isn’t going to happen whilst my derriere points downwards.

This does, however, beg two questions. Firstly, how does someone like me approach issues such as extending the range of services available when the various additional devices I may require would need purchasing and installing professionally? Getting a good and reliable builder is difficult at the best of times but finding one who won’t talk about their work after a few drinks with mates will prove impossible in my view.

Secondly, will I ever be able to have a personal relationship with anyone that isn’t likely to flounder once my revived career is, almost inevitably (dramatic pause), revealed? We shall see. For the time being I’m quite happy with Netflix, a good bottle of wine, an estate agent with benefits, the Hitachi Wand and the air rifle. I want Reggie to feel safe and loved. Any other personal needs can wait for now.

The Building Society have written to Trevelyan and me to point out the bleeding obvious and request clarification of circumstances and payment of all overdue amounts within a month. I need to think carefully about how to respond.

March

As would seem to be the case for many people in this modern age, the advent of mobile phones has resulted in my use of the landline diminishing to almost zero. It only rings occasionally, and when it does the caller’s number is usually withheld and the subject unwanted or irrelevant. They, whoever ‘they’ are, say answering a landline after 9pm only brings bad news. So it proved when I received a call on mine recently from Trevelyan.

It happened as I was dozing on the settee after a particularly strenuous day involving a good deal of slapping and whipping, letting thoughts of the potential ramifications of repetitive strain injury and how to explain it to my doctor dissipate.

Trevelyan was charm personified to begin with. He was disturbingly keen to point out how considerate he was being by phoning so late, when he knew Reggie would be asleep. There was something important he needed to discuss with me uninterrupted. My immediate thought was he might actually want to make arrangements to see his child, something he’d not done since leaving prison last year, but that turned out not to be the case.

What Trevelyan does with his life nowadays is something I have no desire whatsoever to investigate. However, it seems he takes a great deal of interest in what I do, as he spent the first few minutes of our conversation explaining what he had discovered and how upset he was about it.

“I can’t believe you’ve gone back to your old life. And working from home too. You are completely mad. What about the neighbours? And Reggie – how on earth can you justify it? I am telling you if you don’t stop immediately I’ll report you to the police, social services, the local authority, the newspapers, everybody.”

“A pleasure to speak to you too”, I responded sweetly. “May I enquire from where you obtained all this information?”

“That’s my little secret. I know it’s the truth so don’t even attempt to BS me.” Trevelyan suddenly sounded very close to the edge. He was breathing hard. It reminded me of some of our phone conversations when we first met. They were exciting times.

“I have absolutely no intention of trying to do that,” I replied. “And I have absolutely no intention of stopping what I am doing either. For reference, please note I also do home visits. I need to keep a roof over mine and Reggie’s heads, especially as I now know the extent of the mortgage arrears. Using my expertise in this way may appal you but it pays the bills. What’s more, it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with you how I live my life now.”

“Go back to smoking weed and being an absent father. By the way, I have given your address to the authorities so they can chase you for maintenance for Reggie. In case you had forgotten he’s four now and was quite upset by your failure to even send a birthday card.”

“Screw you.”

“I did. Look where it got me.”

Trevelyan ended the call. I dialled 1471. The stupid prick had used a landline himself and I now had the number. I left it for an hour or so and then called. Trevelyan didn’t answer, but a young-sounding female did. It was Abigail. That was a shock. We’re meeting for a catch-up next month.

Gavin’s house remains unsold. RightMove tells me the price has been reduced again. I may need to work on Liam to get his arse into gear here. The trouble is I may get sidetracked with personal stuff.  Part of me is happy from a work viewpoint; part of me is worried about the value of property generally on the estate. A lower price might encourage less acceptable people to buy and that could be ghastly.

Look at Vinod and his ever-increasing family at No. 14 if proof is needed! They still aren’t talking to me, not that I’m bothered about it. I wonder if they’ve found anyone else to deliver their drugs? I wave to Vinod occasionally, just to remind him about our little arrangement. He ignores me. Ask me if I’m bothered.

April

I have achieved quite a lot this month. Where to start?

Using some of Anna’s contacts I have managed to upgrade my work wardrobe to the extent I no longer feel uncomfortable whilst working. I leave those feelings to my clients. The additional pounds are now hidden from view. I refuse to smile though; unprofessional. 

Anna and I work well together and it seems our services are becoming increasingly popular. I was worried everything would fall apart but the opposite seems to be true. The dilemma has become how to fit all the appointments in to each working day. I guess I’m lucky to have this problem, but it’s a problem nevertheless.

At the outset, Anna and I agreed red lines that would not be crossed at work under any circumstances. Being able to pick up our children once school had finished; that kind of thing. Many of my clients seem to have similar constraints, some of which are time-related, whilst others are of my choosing, but their red lines are usually physical and strategically situated around the buttock or upper thigh areas as the appointment with me progresses.

But I digress. I am reaching capacity for my services. Unless I can engineer additional times for appointments, I may have to lengthen waiting times, which isn’t good in this business. I need to consider my options.

I have found the perfect location to continue to hone my newly discovered shooting skills. Whilst in the attic with the torch to check everything was dry and secure I noticed there were shafts of light coming through the roof near the floor level. A closer inspection revealed the problem to be nothing serious, just two loose tiles. Amazingly, there was no evidence of water ingress.

I grabbed one of the tiles and it moved sideways, which allowed me a splendid view of many of the houses on the estate. As I looked out, I noticed a neighbour’s cat that I’d chased out of the front garden on several occasions getting ready to perform there again. If only I had the air rifle with me!

Long story short, I have adapted this area to become my shooting hideout. The tally as I write is three pigeons, a blackbird, a crow and, most pleasingly, the shitting cat. I’m proud to report all the creatures were taken out with one shot. Each. The cat did manage to stagger back to where it lived before expiring. At least, that’s what the owner told me a few days later when asking if I had any information that might explain what had happened to it.

On the downside though, I only winged the yappy Jack Russell from No. 3. It moved just as I pressed the trigger. It’s stopped yapping now though, so perhaps its near-death experience has had the effect I craved.

I try to spend a few minutes each day in the hideout, subject to work and Reggie commitments. The loose tiles move easily. It’s very comfortable lying in the prone position. There’s no noise when I shoot, and there are plenty of targets!

I sometimes lie in a hot bath in the evening and speculate about the differences between me as a wife and mother (the Trevelyan years?) and me as I am now (liberated). Physically, I’m the same person give or take a dress size or two but, mentally, my attitude to most things has changed radically.

I’m no longer a doormat because I can’t afford to be. Also, why should I let anyone try to control me? People depend on me to be the hunter-gatherer now. I’ve had enough of idiots. I think it’s called growing-up or, possibly, refusing to accept second-best. I like it. I should have done it years ago.

I’ve been asked to sign a petition raised by the owner of the now expired shitting cat, requesting the owners of air rifles become subject to the same rules and regulations applicable to normal gun owners. Clearly, the cause of death of their beloved Tiddles has been established. Naturally, I signed.

To say I was stunned when Abigail answered the phone after my argument with Trevelyan last month would be an understatement. She recognised the number when I called initially, and managed to answer without disturbing her father who, it seems, had fallen deeply asleep after smoking a large spliff in a fit of frustration at not getting his own way when we spoke. Fortunately for me, she said she hadn’t heard what was being discussed.

We have met secretly. Her facial tattoos turned out to be predominantly henna-based and have faded away, and whilst her hair has returned to its normal colour, the style is massively different to how I remember it, which may explain why she seems able to go out in public so easily and unrecognisably. Her dress-sense is somewhat toned-down too. She is definitely growing up. I admit I’ve missed her more than I expected I would.

There are many, many stories to relate about what happened to her and how she has ended up staying with her father. These will no doubt surface in the coming months. In the meantime I can report she is happy where she is and doesn’t want to come home to me (thank God, although I will confess to being a little bit hurt inside).

She’s also apparently deeply in love with a female ex-trapeze artist and amateur tattooist turned mobile phone store manager who, through strained financial circumstances, is currently living with her own mother. And Abigail’s not 16 yet.

Armed with a winning smile, some personal savings Trevelyan knows nothing about, cash receipts from recent personal services rendered in my new work enterprise and a semi-plausible explanation about why the mortgage hadn’t been paid for seven months, I arranged a meeting with the Branch Manager of the Building Society.

He was very nice, earnestly accepting my story about Trevelyan losing his job due to depression. Thankfully, he didn’t ask how this had arisen but he gave his sympathies. I won’t be passing them on. Offering to repay the amount overdue in one lump obviously sweetened the pill, plus a promise the account wouldn’t go overdrawn again.

I told him I’d started a new business venture with a friend and it was proving quite successful. By the time I left, the Manager was eating out of the palm of my hand. I’ve begun the process of transferring the account to my name only.  I now need to remove a certain someone from the mortgage document. I suspect this won’t be easy.

May

For the first time in ages I’m beginning to feel financially secure. The business venture is exceeding all my expectations. The Building Society Manager will be delighted. However, there remain certain potential hurdles to be overcome given the nature of what I do. Being cautious remains the most desirable policy.

To celebrate this strange but happy feeling I spent an hour in the attic considering the best way to take out a particularly annoying Shih Tzu that seems to have decided the quickest way to Australia is through my front garden. It doesn’t respond to being shouted at. Anyway, what is it about that area? Perhaps it can smell terminally wounded shitting cat. Or is there another body buried nearby?

I have no idea who owns the dog, or I would have spoken to them about this before deciding to take action. Eventually, there will be a reckoning here, but a more powerful air rifle might be needed. Trust me. I don’t intend to just wound the little bastard.

The lack of contact with Trevelyan since the phone call a couple of months ago has been both concerning and welcome. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something stupid in a misguided fit of rage, but I’ve been happy with the peace and quiet. I would ask Abigail to keep an eye on him, but she’s never been aware of how I’ve made a living and I have no intention of telling her at the moment.

Anna drove me to visit a new client a few days ago. Whilst most of them are male, there are some female and trans- on occasion, and this visit involved a lady I will refer to for now as Jacqui (not as it turns out her real name). There was something nagging at me as we drove there and it was only when we approached the address Anna had put into the satnav that everything sort of fell into place.

I’d been there before, in my capacity as parent, at a fund-raising event. ‘Jacqui’ runs the Parent Teacher Association for the school Abigail attended until she absconded, and Reggie will no doubt attend in due course provided Abigail’s actions aren’t held against him.

There’s a lot of theatre involved in what I do. There’s also some pain, possibly shouting and a good deal of improvisation depending on what has been requested or agreed. It’s not just thrown together on the day – there’s a form to be completed on my website to allow me to prepare properly and ensure I have the right equipment with me.

From what ‘Jacqui’ wrote on the form she filled in, her big thing is deprivation. She obtains unusual pleasure from not being allowed to do some things, and she was quite definitive in how this was expressed. That’s why there were handcuffs and a blindfold in my bag (explain that if required to an interested police officer).

My memory of her is as a larger-than-life character, absolutely in control, capable of juggling numerous different activities successfully. She had two children in the school and was bringing them up by herself following the unfortunate early death of her husband. The PTA is well regarded thanks to her continuing efforts and obvious abilities. 

Somehow, she wasn’t the kind of individual I would expect to request my specialist services. I said as much to Anna as we neared the address. Call it intuition I guess. She suggested driving past rather than stopping to assess the potential risk, to see if anything unusual stood out to either of us before it became too late.

It proved to be a good call. The address in question is a large, detached property in a better part of town, on the corner of the main road and a side avenue. As we drove past the entrance and then the avenue junction I spotted a car I recognised parked under a tree nearby. There was someone sat in the driver’s side, watching. Trevelyan!

Fortunately, we were in Anna’s car, so the possibility of either of us being recognised was thankfully minimal. We drove on and away from the house, not stopping until we got back to my place. I then emailed the client with an excuse for my non-appearance and seethed.

I now knew some of what Trevelyan was doing to occupy his time. Believe me when I say there will be repercussions. And ‘Jacqui’s real name is Andrea. If she’s involved with him, her desire for deprivation will pay dividends. Conversation, appreciation, understanding, even love – Trevelyan deprived me in all of those areas and several more besides. I hope she likes his laugh. She will be in a group of one if she does.

Liam the young estate agent has been in touch. I’m flattered he still wants to see me but work is so crazy at the moment I simply haven’t any free time. He’s totally relaxed about this. I have his mobile number, so it’s up to me to contact him once things settle down. Anyway, he should be concentrating on selling the property next door to me.

June

Anna’s partner has some interesting friends. I mention this after spending a few minutes on my phone checking the current location of Trevelyan’s vehicle. All this is possible as a tracker has been surreptitiously ‘fitted’ to it by one of these friends as a favour to hopefully ensure Anna and I remain safe.

It’s becoming something of an obsession with me, checking his whereabouts. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it has. At least I’m confident the tracker is unlikely to be discovered. Trevelyan never ever cleans his car or checks tyre pressures.

I have no idea if Anna’s contacts know the full story but, regardless, it’s nice to be able to obtain a little bit of reassurance going forwards. Or backwards. Or even sideways. The tracker phone app works in all directions. And the information it gives is proving enlightening.

According to Anna, the tracker software provides basic data to allow users to monitor regularly used routes and places where the vehicle stays parked for longer periods. Having worked out how to access this information, I can confirm the vehicle spends between five and seven hours parked away from Trevelyan’s present home address most weekdays. At weekends it is parked at Andrea’s address for at least some of the time.

From my research, Mr Google tells me that the weekday vehicle location is a ‘bijou massage parlour’ close to the town centre. A better description would be ‘clandestine knocking shop’. I say this for two reasons. Firstly, I remember the place from when I began my career – it had a dreadful reputation then – and, secondly, Anna knows a couple of girls who are working there now.

It’s called Froth, and the name is quite apt from what I can recall of the furnishings and decoration. I’ve often thought a better name would be Puke. Or, possibly, Shithole. It’s everything that gives the sex industry a bad name, which is saying something.

And the man who was quite happy to give me a hard time about my recent career choice would seem to somehow be involved in something potentially far more sordid and sleazy himself. Hypocrite! I think that’s where he found out about what I am doing now.

What Trevelyan could offer Froth’s owner baffles me. It would have been pointless asking Abigail what she knew as she wouldn’t have a clue. As far as I know, she believes her father still works for the local authority, middle-managing others in what’s left of the housing department.

I wonder if she’s aware of the recent drugs bust and imprisonment? Anyway, I have asked Anna if she can find anything out via her contacts at Froth. It might be useful should things once again deteriorate between Trevelyan and me. If such a thing is possible given our present situation. Knowledge is power.

Abigail continues to mature almost before my eyes. I’m sure that during the time she was away with the circus (not a phrase I thought I would ever write) she became more adult in thought and deed; more physically and mentally aware; more knowing. That’s not to say she is the finished article yet though.

At our most recent ‘secret’ meeting she confessed she has been in contact with some of her old school friends to tell them she is back in the area. She really expects them to keep quiet and not talk to anyone else about it. Apparently, even her girlfriend, Kara, is appalled. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find out and when that happens the ramifications may be currently unclear but they definitely aren’t looking great.

In other news, a miserable-looking man rang my doorbell a few days ago. As luck would have it I wasn’t working so I was able to answer myself. He produced a card that confirmed he was a loss adjuster. He’d been instructed to investigate the strange death of the shitting cat I secretly despatched via air rifle in April.

Over a cup of tea and digestive biscuit I didn’t tell him what I knew. Instead, I told him I couldn’t really assist as I didn’t know anything about what happened, other than what I’d been told subsequently by the owners of the cat, whose name it transpires was Cecil.

He was a diligent chap, I’ll give him that. Notes were taken and questions asked. Had I seen Cecil in my garden at all before the incident? Did I hear anything at all on the day of Cecil’s demise? Did I own an air rifle? That question stopped me in my tracks, something the pellet almost achieved with Cecil. “What a strange question to ask me!” I said, playing for time.

“The autopsy on Cecil (a cat was autopsied?) clearly identified the cause of death was extensive bleeding following an air rifle pellet wound”, said the loss adjuster. “This wasn’t too difficult to establish as the pellet was still in Cecil’s body. The blood stains on the pavement near where his body was found indicated he wasn’t shot there, but somehow he managed drag himself there after being shot. Without going into too many details, specialist equipment we’ve used indicates there is a trail of blood leading away from Cecil’s body towards your front gate. Yes, I know it’s a bit CSI but I’m confident this information is accurate.”

He continued. “It seems Cecil was a very rare and therefore valuable cat (Ah! That explains the autopsy). He was insured by his owners against unexpected and violent death for several thousand pounds. A claim has been submitted and the insurers have instructed me to investigate before payment is authorised due to the unusual nature of the death. Hence my involvement.”

I considered the new information. Then I apologised and said I’d love to assist but I simply didn’t know anything. And, no, I didn’t own an air rifle.

“As it happens,” he went on, undaunted, “I’ve approached all the local stockists I can find to ask if they keep records of sales of air rifles and ammunition. Hopefully, they will provide me with all the information I need to narrow this search down and identify a potential suspect. It’s early days yet though.”

Clearly, the would-be Columbo hadn’t considered the internet as a possible source. This was a good thing, because it was how Trevelyan had purchased the air rifle in the first place. I relaxed slightly and indicated I had things I needed to do. “Do you have any further questions,” I enquired, “or are we finished?”

The loss adjuster shook his head, got up and said I could keep his card as it had a phone number and email address should I remember anything relevant that may assist him. “I’ve spoken to another neighbour, who specifically recalls seeing Cecil entering your garden on the morning in question. She didn’t hear anything, or seen Cecil leave subsequently. It’s all very mysterious but, in my opinion, the truth will eventually surface. It always does”

When he left, I sat down and reflected on what had happened. Clearly, there was indisputable evidence Cecil had been hit by an air rifle pellet near the front of my house. Nothing new there, as I undisputedly pulled the trigger and terminally wounded Cecil. However, I hope I am the only person who knows this. Making sure this remains the case is what matters now. I think it’s time for some track-covering.