The room was full of women. Vexed women. And they were all talking as one.

-We need to do something.

-Yeah, we need to do something!

-Are we going to do everything, like always?

-We are.

The next day, Ruth got in touch with her former college colleague Jane, a bridge engineer. Village’s old bridge was in need of serious repairs. The bridge was the only link to what was known as ‘the women’s little sweet world’ – a whole street dedicated to hairstyling, confectionery, coffee drinking, manicure, beautiful dresses, perfumes, libraries, community projects, motherhood, and weepy humanitarian feelings.

At first, they asked nicely. Then they begged. Finally, they screamed. The mayor was a man. All decisional people in their village were men. And they were busy. At the pub, drinking and playing darts.

After one week of not seeing much of their wives, girlfriends, mothers, and daughters, the men declared their arrogance pandemic and called for a meeting at the pharmacy. The pharmacist was also a man. But not the doctor. The doctor was an Elizabeth, and she refused any non-emergency consultations until the bridge was cleared by the Bridges Authority.

-So, all our savings are gone.

The manager of the bank’s branch in their village was also a woman.

-The artifacts left by my father disappeared too.

-Does anybody have seen my Picasso?

All men were crying dry.

The bridge was inaugurated on a rainy day, just before noon. The men presented themselves half an hour earlier, but they were prevented from stepping over the bridge. By the first women police officer in the village’s history.

At the other end of the rainbow was so much beauty, that, by comparison, the sun looked like a feeble daffodil.