It's Saturday afternoon, Hyacinth has dragooned Liz into taking her out, and Richard is, if not looking forward to weeding, at least glad he won't have to worry that his tie is loose, or some other daft thing.
The sound of Onslow's car backfiring interrupts his fragile peace.
"I heard our Hyacinth's gone to some do at the church," Onslow says, "and I thought you might want to pop round to the pub."
He's about to demur; he'd rather tend the garden without supervision. But a tiny spark of rebellion kindles to life. "You know, Onslow, I think I will."