It was his favourite armchair, the one he’d inherited from his dad, but when he came home from work it was different. The upholstery was wrong. He asked his wife about it, she said it had always been that way. He wasn’t convinced, though, and dug out some old photos from the study, but she was right. Slowly things began to change, furniture, knick knacks, colours and shapes, basic things, one at a time. He came down to breakfast one day and sombrely watched his wife cooking pancakes. Almost to himself, he asked, ‘Have you always been a blonde?’