As she waddled into the room he looked up, a smile on his face.

“You can hear!” she accused, “Why are you making me wear something that crinkles? Everybody will be able to tell.”

“I’m not,” he said, his relaxed tone very different to her blend of stress and childish whining, “It only crinkles when it’s dry.”

“Oh great,” she responded sarcastically, “all I need to do to stop crinkling is wet myself.”

He nodded at her, then looked towards the front of the house, a soft chiming indicating someone at the door. “You’re going to have to eventually anyway, but I’ll go and answer the door; that’ll give you until I’m back with my parents to decide whether you want them to hear you crinkling or not.”

She went wide-eyed at that but said nothing, just stood there, knees further apart than might seem comfortable but nothing untoward visible, the loose skirt long enough to be modest and hiding the source of the noise.

When he returned, his parents in tow, she was still stood there, a faint blush in her cheeks. She smiled weakly, said hi, introduced herself, offered tea or coffee.

Both parents wanted coffee, black and sweet, so she turned and started to leave the room to make it. As she took her first step she paused, a look of horror on her face, glared at him and gingerly walked from the room. He could tell she was waddling, more than when she’d come in.

“She’s lovely,” said his father, “but what’s that sloshing sound when she walks?”