Legal plans made

After breakfast that Saturday morning the dogs bounded down the lawn towards the lakes and I sauntered behind. I needed fresh air to help me to think.

Bourne chased ducks until they flapped into the lake, wings creating a trough of water, their noisy shouts directed at the Labrador yapping on the shore. They appeared to mock him: "come and get us!" Aunty scratched the earth near some hyacinths, gazing at Bourne with condescending stare.

At Morrison's - half an hour later - our weekly shopping was interrupted by people stopping to talk to Liz. The modicum of politeness, she parked her trolley, and I overheard the conversations about James' engagement and Wesley's health. Shoppers - beaming with smiles - patted Wesley's head. He grimaced and ducked his head trying to avoid the attention. Standing next to me he looked the picture of health.

While I enjoyed my Morrison's 'Flying Start' breakfast, Wesley sitting next to me asked, "Grandad what's klestrel?"

I chewed my toast and said, "cholesterol is like a build of fat in your blood vessels. What makes you ask?" I suspected that I knew the answer.

"Granny says that if you have too many 'Flying Starts' your klestrel will be bad." He replied innocently slurping his orange juice.

"Mmm, OK, I get the point. Thanks, Granny Liz." 'Better stick to toast and marmalade from now on,' I thought.

Just as I thought of toast, the Manageress, Jan, came over with two assistants, looking rather pleased. She placed a coloured sheet labelled "All the colours of toast" on my table. Thirty plus shades of toast met my eyes, from white to burnt charcoal.

"It's for that awkward bloke: the one who's never happy with his toast," Jan and the girls giggled. "We'll tell him OK, pick one!" I laughed with them.

'God, what's wrong with people. If you're not happy put some jam on it, or eat at home!' I thought.

At 10:00 I intended to drop into our office complex for a couple of hours. Turning my BMW off the ring-road I drove past industrial units on the estate: a former milk-processing plant. The landscaped grassland and trees - giving a bright and relaxing appearance - spanned ahead when I approached a modern five-storey block.

I walked towards the double-glazed doors and pressed the intercom. A voice said, "morning, Mr. Morgan", and the doors clicked. A concierge - in maroon jacket and black pants with a crease that could cut - nodded, passing me the register to sign. He placed a pile of assorted mail, held together with an elastic band, on the reception desk.

"How are you, Steve? Anything happening today?" I stood with envelopes and some magazines under my arm.

"Not really, Sir. Just the usual," he replied. "Saturdays... you know."

My post, e-mails and messages had nothing urgent that morning. I could relax and think; left alone with my thoughts. The smell of furniture polish prominent made me sneeze. I stacked the mail in the wire In-Tray, for Jenny to sort, and wiped my mahogany desk top with my palm. It glistened from the reflected neon light.

I leaned backwards in my chair towards a cabinet. Liz, Sean, James, Becky and apparently Rachel, all had their unique abilities. I believed mine to be the ability to view a challenge without restricting emotion, listing scenarios, and making a plan.

I tugged a drawer open and finding the right folder I drew out our Articles of Memoranda, placing the A4 sheets into my brief case. Dialling a number listed on speed-dial I held the handset to my ear and waited.

Mike, our company and family solicitor, said, "hello, John". He listened and accepted my invite to the family meeting. The plans took a step forward.