While my husband watched the kids in the playground, I slipped off to get some blackberries. When I came back, hands covered in berry juice, husband nonchalantly remarked, “You like you've murdered someone.” Then went back to his business.

And now I feel I need to write a story about an unassuming little old lady who sneaks about murdering ne'er-do-wells and covers it up with jam making and such like.

She walks into the village hall, trying to scrub the blood stains off her hands.

“Been making jam again, Doris?”

“Oh yes, vicar, those blackberry stains are a horror!”