The woman was carrying a heavy bag containing what looked like twenty four jars of Marmite.
"That's a lot of Marmite," someone observed.
"I love Marmite," was the reply. "Arnold couldn't stand it. Said he was allergic."
"All those additives, perhaps?"
"No additives. Just yeast extract and vitamins."
"Is that so?"
"That is so. It says so on the jar."
She took the bus to the seaside. Arnold had hated the seaside, too. There were a lot of things Arnold had hated. He had quite probably hated her.
She left the bag on the shingle and paddled in the sea. Arnold had hated paddling. She then sat down beside her bag, and ate her picnic of Marmite sandwiches.
Arnold had had Marmite sandwiches for his last meal. She'd told him the sandwiches were cheese. He only managed one bite, though, as it turned out he'd been right about being allergic. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late.
She waited on the shingle until the tide came in, then she went to the water's edge and threw each Marmite jar far out into the sea. They landed with twenty four little splashes. Twenty-four splashes of ashes. Twenty four little bits of Arnold.
Revenge can be savoury, as well as sweet.