What understands a Maginot Worm of romance?

It was only when she cubed the Cheddar with a swipe of her racquet that I understood that she had replaced the strings with, well, cheesewire. An apple was next, toppling in all directions off the waxcloth table-cover where I had left it. The house was full of apples, and yet she had chosen mine.

Outer space impressed her not in the least, she declared, starting on the hard-boiled eggs I had prepared for the afternoon's snacking in the garden. She had presumed me master of my own house, which I suppose started her on the wobbly path to discombobulation. How could I explain the nomadic nature of, for example, the lake? Or the towers that frequently and cheekily rearranged themselves, often not even waiting until one's back was turned to do so?

She called for bicarbonate of soda, declaring her tummy to be upset. To my shame I though this was a ruse to lure me within range of her racquet. And by the time I realised the truth it was too late. Bob, as we called him (I think he was male) lived for twenty minutes wrapped in a tea towel. We buried him as the sun set, closed the grave and have not been able to find it since, although it is occasionally glimpsed in the distance on summer evenings.