Raymond watched his wife attempt to shelter from the rain beneath the gaudy multi-coloured awning, while the two boys tugged restlessly at her hands. Her face was screwed up and angry, partly, he imagined, because she hated getting wet, partly from putting up with the discord of the two dissimilar pop-tunes that were combining from loudspeakers attached to two roughly equidistant fairground rides. He knew that it must be painful to her musician’s ear. Above the babble of the tinny music, the hiss of the rain and the muffled cries of other people’s children he could hear their voices with perfect clarity: "It's raining, Mummy!" Simon was protesting, giving her arm an extra tug for emphasis.