...Mrs Slack, two doors down and behind the privet hedge [new windows fitted last year to stop the draught, money wasted according to Mr Slack, as Mrs Slack insists on opening the windows all the time, whatever the weather] was twitching the curtains. She had just googled 'weird pain under left breast' and was cross referencing the results with her earlier search of 'sharp pain when breathing in' and 'raised, dry patch on left nipple' when she heard a noise from the village green.
'Well I never', she thought, 'Miss Stitch and that boy from the bakery. She's not going to get much joy from his currant buns, too doughy with a soggy centre'. She'd mentioned it to Mr Hog several times and told him she much preferred a cream horn, particularly in the morning. Mr Hog wouldn't stock them though, on account of them getting under Mrs Hog's mother's plate.
'What are you doing', came the cry from downstairs. Mrs Slack, not wanting Mr Slack to see her taking her only 10 minute break in the day, turned quickly away from the window and bent towards the bed, intent upon finishing her hospital corner. A sudden sharp pain shot across her chest and down her left arm, leaving her breathless and shaking.
She fainted clean away, ripping the sheets from the bed as she fell. Mr Slack rushed towards her, caught his foot on the sheets and knocked himself out on the headboard. The dog, rushing upstairs to join in the game, narrowly missed taking his eye out on the length of metal sticking out of Mrs Slack's flowered pinny. 'Silly cow', thought Fido, 'even I could see that push-up, padded bra was way too small for her. When will she start accepting she's now a woman 'of a certain age?'
Meanwhile, on the village green, ...