Sat on the terrace. The Fatima, who steals food at an alarming rate, yesterday gobbled a large slice of hashish cake left purposefully in the cupboard. An hour or so later she fell silent and morose. Today she arrived two hours late and explained rather bleatingly that she had been malade. ‘That will teach you to eat my food you thieving bitch,’ I said with a cordial smile. ‘Oui monsieur,’ she said slinking into the kitchen. Because she came two hours late, she appeared to imagine that she should stay till three instead of one. At 2.30 I said ‘Fatima, you may go.’ I pointed to my watch. She didn’t understand. M. Yellow-jersey turned up as she was leaving. She looked very disdainful. I see her as having a towny accent and looking askance at Yellow-jersey’s countryfied manners.

Joe Orton, The Orton Diaries, edited by John Lahr (220)