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George and Harry were hard at work. They had spent three hours, on a morning when the sun was shining and the day was green with possibilities, stuck in George’s back room, lights dimmed and breathing in a heady scent of sweat and hot glue.

If you had asked any of Harry’s friends how he would have spent his Saturday morning, they would have laughed and suggested that Harry had never seen a Saturday morning, except maybe darkly through the jaws of a hangover.

If you had asked George’s friends, they would have smiled affectionately and said ‘probably stuck in some darkened room, making a scale model of a suspension bridge out of matchsticks.’

They would have been wrong. This was a cantilever bridge, which was entirely different. It was also not to scale, as the matchsticks George had been able to acquire were a whole quarter of a millimetre off.

It filled up the entire room. What had started out, as many of these things do, as an unwise bet in a pub had turned into a multi-month project, utilising two hundred and seventy thousand six hundred and forty two matchsticks, and consuming every spare Saturday morning since January.

As George happily worked on some of the finer detailing on the base of the Eastern Pier, there was a small, but clearly audible, snap.

“Bugger,” said Harry.

George looked over. Harry was stood by the central balustrade, looking extremely red and frustrated.

“The cantilever’s a bit fiddly,” he said, managing to contain his language only by dint of being in George’s house. “I think we’re going to need some more matches.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said George breezily. “These things happen. I accounted for breakages when I put in the initial lumber order.”

Harry didn’t go any less red, but this time it seemed to emanate from embarrassment. He pointed to a metal waste bin at the corner of the table. Inside appeared to be the makings of a bonfire for a very small witch.

“It’s alright,” said Harry. “I’ll sort it. Do you have a computer in the house?”

“I do,” said George proudly. “Ian set it up for me last week. I’ve worked out how to go on the line and everything.”

“As long as I can get Amazon on there, I don’t care,” said Harry gruffly and stalked out of the room.

George turned back to his pier. He had just enough time to think about the height to which he needed to bury his caisson when he heard a shout from the other room.

“George. It’s asking me if I want to restore tabs.”

George looked up sharply, a ruler falling from his suddenly numb hands.

“Don’t click on that button,” he cried out in alarm.

“Okay,” called back Harry. “I’ve clicked on the button. Now what?”

George began to run through.

“Oh my,” said Harry. “That’s… interesting.”

“Turn it off,” shouted George in a panic. “You’re not supposed to see that.”

“But it’s so big,” called back Harry, in amused delight. “I didn’t realize you could get them that size.”

“Turn it off. Turn it off,” George insisted.

“And such an unusual colour,” continued Harry. “The young lady certainly seems delighted.”

George rushed into the computer room, panting with exertion. “You’re not supposed to see it. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

On the screen, a smiling, Lycra clad woman was cheerfully demonstrating the latest in home gym equipment. It was extensive, comprehensive and, above all, expensive.

Underneath the order number was Harry’s name and address.

“It’s for your birthday,” said George, somewhat truculently. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, believe me, it was,” said Harry. “Your internet connection’s abysmal, so for the first few seconds, all I could see was the young lady’s head and bare shoulders looking sweaty and in the middle of something strenuous.”

“You shouldn’t have been looking at all,” complained George. “Didn’t you log in under your own profile?”

“I don’t know how,” admitted Harry. “Not without logging you out first.”

“Ah,” said George, delighted that, for once, he was ahead of the game technology wise. “That’s easy. Budge over. Ian showed me the other day.”

George took Harry’s place at the computer and began clicking buttons. Within mere minutes, he had located the alternate login screen and typed in Harry’s email address.

“What’s you password?” he asked Harry.

“It’s a secret,” said Harry.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said George. “I’m not going to hack you. Besides, what with the bizarre combination of symbols and numbers they make you put in nowadays, I doubt I’ll even remember it after I’ve typed it. I’m sure you’ve made it pretty secure.”

“No, I mean its asecret,” said Harry. “All one word.”

“Oh, right,” said George. He tapped in the letters, starting with a. After a moment, the words ‘password accepted’ appeared on the screen.

“There you go,” said George. “Everything set up. You should be able to access the account now. Do you want to try it out?”

Harry said nothing. He was staring in mute terror at the screen.

On the screen, in bold letters, was the text ‘Restore tabs?’

“Oh,” began George, “should I…?”

Harry went bright red.

“Don’t click on that button,” he cried out in alarm.