“Oh, dear,” said Ashley, picking himself up and walking back to his parents’ house, which had been badly shaken by the concussion. The walls had cracked, and the roof had lost several dozen tiles. The garage itself had ceased to exist—except for a few tattered walls. Of the globe there was nothing. Isolated fires had been set alight on the lawn, which helpful neighbors were already stamping out.

“Was that you, Ashley?” asked Roger, who was standing at the off-kilter doorway of the house, wig askew and one slipper blown off.

“I cannot tell a lie, Father—Mary was driving. She wanted to have a go, so I let her, but her binary is a bit rusty, and… well, there you have it.”

“Is this true?” asked Roger, staring at Mary.

“No,” said Ashley before Mary could answer. “And I think I broke your birdhouse, too.”

Ashley’s father turned a paler blue. “You’re banished, young man,” he said sternly, jabbing the remains of his pipe in Ashley’s direction. “I think you’d better take Miss Mary home and not return for at least a week.”

Ashley bowed low. “I take my punishment with good grace. Thank you, Father.”

He looked at his Datsun, which had been blown onto its side.

“I think we’d better take the bus.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mary, picking her way across the wreckage to the front door and inside, where Abigail was staring sadly at the plaster ducks, now in several pieces. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. 1001111001000100111011100100. It was most enjoyable.”

“Oh!” said Abigail happily. “Well, you must come again. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yes, indeed,” added Roger kindly. “Our house is your house. Sorry about Ashley. He’s always been a bit difficult.”

“The last one out of the egg sac,” added Abigail with a sigh, by way of explanation.

“…saw the first launch of the Proteus…” muttered Uncle Colin, speaking from beneath the print of The Hay Wain, which had fallen on top of him.

“What did she call you?” whispered Roger as they stood at the front door and waved good-bye.

“I’m not sure,” Abigail whispered back. “Something about how her prawns have asthma.”

“So,” said Mary as they walked away from the smoldering ruin of his parents’ house, “where are you going to stay tonight?”

“I’ll sneak back and sleep in the potting shed,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “It’s relatively undamaged.”

“I’ve a spare ceiling,” said Mary. “You can stick yourself to that if you want.”

“Well, o-o-kay,” said Ashley a bit suspiciously. “But if you’re trying to invite me home for sex on a first date, I don’t have a penis, so you might be a bit disappointed. Then again, you haven’t got a 1010111010101, so I might be, too.”

Mary hid a smile. “I’ll try and resist the temptation to jump you, Ash.”

But then he saw the funny side and relaxed, and made several of those squeaky-toy-being-sat-upon laughs.

“Your offer is very generous,” he replied, and went several different shades of blue in rapid succession, “I accept.”

“You know what?” asked Mary as they walked toward the main road and the bus stop.

“What?”

“That was the best date I’ve ever had.”

“All of it?” asked Ashley in surprise. “Even my dopey parents? And the wig and the Binary Scrabble and exploding Travelator and stuff?”

“All of it.”

“I’m very glad,” he said at last. “Do you want to come on another date sometime? Somewhere better and classier and more fun?”

“I’d like that a lot,” replied Mary. “Where are we going? The moon? Venus?”

“Somewhere much better,” replied Ashley happily. “Some of the original members of the Stylistics are re-forming, and my dopey sister reckons she can get tickets.”

Before Jack had even had a chance to recover from the blow with the rolling pin, the back door opened again and Madeleine came out, her face crimson with anger.

“You miserable, unreal piece of crap!” she screamed at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I trusted you!”

Jack tried to say something, but she cut him short.

“Don’t try to explain yourself. If I were you, I’d start looking for a good divorce lawyer!” She went back inside and banged the door shut after her.

“Phew!” said Caliban as he hopped down from the trash can.

“Kind of serves you right. I mean, swapping Madeleine for Agatha Diesel? You must be nuts.”

“I didn’t.”

“What the sodding hell is going on out there?” said Mr. Punch, who had just come out of his house. “Judy and I can barely hear ourselves shout.”

“Nothing,” said Jack.

“He screwed the boss’s wife,” piped up Caliban.

“I did no such thing—and who asked you?”

“Hang on,” said Punch, “I’m coming around.”

In a couple of minutes, he had reappeared, dressed in pajamas and a nightcap and still grinning crazily with his varnished leer, which Jack thought even more galling in the present situation.

“Well,” he said, “infidelity, Mr. Sprat? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“It’s not me. And it’s none of your business. And it’s two t’s in Spratt, not one.”

“But it is my business,” retorted Punch. “I’m your neighbor, and we PDRs have to stick together.”

“Huzzah!” said Caliban in enthusiastic agreement.

“You’re a Person of Dubious Reality?” asked Jack of the little ape. “From where?”

“The Tempest,” replied Caliban with a twinge of pride, adding,

“You know, Shakespeare?” when Jack didn’t seem to understand.

“Oh,” he said, “right.”

“Your problem is our problem,” said Punch kindly.

But Jack was still angry.

“What makes you think Punch and Judy—of all people—are qualified to give advice on marriage?” sneered Jack.

“Nothing really,” explained Punch in a calm and patient voice,

“but we’ve been married three hundred and twenty-eight years next Wednesday, and not a single day goes by without us arguing and fighting. But despite all that, we find it in our hearts to forgive, because the bottom line is that we love each other dearly, and it is that love which binds our relationship together, regardless of the violence and the quarreling.”

Jack sat on the garden wall. He ran a hand through his hair. His head was tender where Madeleine had hit him and was starting to come up in a bump. He looked at Punch and Caliban, who were staring at him with quiet concern.

“Madeleine found out I was a nursery-rhyme character,” said Jack at last, sighing deeply.

“You never told her?” asked Punch. “How can you keep that a secret from her?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to lose her. Perhaps it was because I want to be a real person.”

“I’m told it’s overrated,” replied Punch. “Think you could do what you do and help the people you help if you were real? You’d never have found out who killed Humpty Dumpty, and Bluebeard would still be killing his brides. And what about Red Riding-Hood and her gran?”

“Yeah—what about them?” Jack retorted.

“Okay,” Punch conceded, “that was a bad example. But you see what I mean. You’re good at this weird NCD shit precisely because you’re not real. Besides, what’s so great about ‘real’ these days anyway?”