Joan scuffed her shoes along the fake cork tiles, puffing her palm under her perm, along the way. Mr Dirk, what a surprise! You know him? Asked Don. Joan ignored her husband. Joan, Joan, it seems there’s been some, how should I put it, lack of fungi?- west side of town; the boys are crying Joan, the boys are crying? I can understand Mr Dirk, your concern. Cup of tea perhaps? Mushroom pie? Mr Dirk panned the room with his eyes then exhaled; the grumble in his throat echoed louder than the Harley Davidson engine, shattering one of Don’s ribs.