Alone in his house, Mr Cavendish sat in his lounge in his favourite armchair reading a book. He had hoped to while away the afternoon by getting lost in a story, but try as he might, he couldn't focus properly, and time and time again his thoughts dwelt upon the not too distant past.

Mr Cavendish had found Ideal Village many years ago, arriving with a burning desire to do something important. He was not sure what it would be, or when it would occur, he just knew that one day he would do 'something' that was 'important'. Way back then, Mr Cavendish had become a respected member of the Parish Council. He remembered one particular parish meeting during which he had pointed out to his fellow councillors that there was, perhaps, a flaw in the design of the village name.

The word 'ideal' suggested a positive wholesomeness. This, of course, was not a problem for a society where all upheld wholesome values. But Ideal Village catered for the individual first; and since no hard rule officially stated that anyone's ultimate desires must not be anti-social, it was inevitable there could one day be problems. Mr Cavendish had called for a motion that would change the name of the parish to 'Good Village'. It was sound advice, he put to them, that would safeguard the villagers against the horrible things they had all heard about (that is to say, the horrible things that were supposed to happen to other people in other places). Of course, the motion had been mooted, dismissed, and it was never mentioned again.

Closing the book and throwing it on the coffee table, Mr Cavendish headed into the kitchen. He made himself a sandwich and a pot of tea, and then, taking his lunch, read the local newspaper. The front page held a photograph of Mr Pankhurst shaking hands with his son, Charlie. The headline read: Mayor's Policeman Son Receives Commendation. Mr Cavendish folded the newspaper, placed it to one side, and then sat motionless while contemplating the limp cucumber sandwich in his hand.

Sadly, it had been a long time since Mr Cavendish had been on the Parish Council. Over the years, as he had grown older, his voice had got smaller and smaller until the day came when no one could hear him at all. With no one able to hear him, Mr Cavendish stopped talking altogether. The inhabitants of Ideal Village had entirely forgotten that he existed, including Mr Pankhurst and the other members of the Parish Council.

And it was Mr Pankhurst who had been responsible for Mr Cavendish's suggestion of a change to the village name being rejected all those years ago. The Mayor and Chairman of the Parish Council had come to Ideal Village because he wanted, above all things, to live a life that was devoid of change. Ergo, the name of the village remained Ideal, a decision that had now come back to bite them all like a wolf on a bloody bone.

Mr Cavendish took no pleasure in being proved right; he was sickened to the core by recent events. But if the Plan was going to save Ideal Village, then a stout heart was called for, especially as he was now playing the Waiting Game where the gut was filled with so much anxiety. So,with the tea grown cold in the pot, not one cup drunk, the sandwiches grown stale on the plate, unblemished by a single bite, Mr Cavendish paced his house,waiting for nightfall when the next phase of the Plan could begin.