They spend the morning investigating the logistics of moving the chandelier into the greenhouse at the back of the garden. The greenhouse was erected many years ago but it has never housed a chandelier before. They are excited about this new development in their lives. The first problem they face is that the chandelier will not fit through the door to the greenhouse, a problem which they solve by carefully contorting the chandelier’s limbs so that they can manouevre it inside with minimal damage to the glasswork. Then there is the problem that they have not prepared a way of attaching the chandelier to the central beam which forms the apex of the roof, then the problem that they do not want to put it down on the hard paved floor, and the further problem that their arms are getting tired from holding it and thinking. They sweat gently as they fret. Twisting the chandelier’s limbs again, they scrape it back through the greenhouse door and set it down on the grass. There are the following problems to contend with – the fact that it is nearly lunchtime, the fact that there are dark clouds forming in the sky, the fact that the chandelier does not look as good in the greenhouse as they anticipated, the fact that they are not as strong or clever or able as they hoped they were. They head inside for a hot drink. As the kettle boils, the dark clouds swell like ripening fruit and then a hard rain starts up and pelts down, heavy drops chipping away at the chandelier, picking away at the greenhouse, leaving everything lightly shattered. The rain stops just as suddenly, and the sun returns. They go outside to survey the mess, find little bits of wood and glass scattered across the garden. There is something pleasant about it anyway. The hot sun warps the timber frame of the greenhouse. The chandelier begins to melt as if made of ice, wax, whims, extravagant fancies. They stand in the sun and watch it all until it feels like everything has turned out ok, and they float above the scene in the past tense.