The children left to do the washing-up and then, after a short discussion with Mma Kentse about one of the children who was new to the house and who was having difficulty settling, Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe returned to the office for the post-lunch cup of tea.

“She is a good housemother, that one,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane agreed. “Whenever I hear people say that the country is going to the dogs—and there are such people, you know, Mma…”

“Oh, I know that,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “There are always people who say that things are getting worse and that the old ways are disappearing…” She paused. She was one of those people, she realised; not that she said that all the time, but she did occasionally say that, because it was so obviously true. Things were changing; she had noticed that a long time ago, and other people had noticed it too. People were less concerned about other people, less prepared to help them, not so ready to listen to them. Did that mean that things were getting worse? Well, in her view it did—at least as far as those matters were concerned; in other respects, things were undoubtedly getting better. People had more of a chance in life no matter where they came from; those who worked for other people had more rights, were protected against the cruelty that employers could show in the past. That was an improvement. And the hospitals were better, and school bullies found it a bit harder to bully people; and there were fewer cruel nicknames; and fewer power cuts just when you wanted to cook the evening meal.

She looked at Mma Potokwane. The matron was staring up at the ceiling, and Mma Ramotswe realised that her friend was probably thinking exactly the same thoughts that she was, even if she had made the original comment about people saying that things were getting worse.

“Of course,” mused Mma Potokwane, “you might say…”

Mma Ramotswe waited, but the sentence remained unfinished, hanging in the air like an immense question mark over the state of the world.

“You might say,” Mma Ramotswe suggested, “that in some ways—just in some ways, Mma—things are going to the dogs.”

“Maybe the dogs don’t want it that way,” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe the dogs say: Why are they giving all this to us, when we are just dogs and we have enough to do scratching ourselves for fleas and looking for things to eat? Maybe that is what the dogs are thinking, Mma.”

They both laughed.