A Deadly Weapon

I wake to a text from Greg, which says,

"Molly - having provided a useful public service by cleaning the streets of dog mess, I am now being creative with Photoshop. There will be a treat for you in the morning."

Oh God, now what's he doing? And how many letterboxes did he post poo through?

I decide not to bother to find out, and instead spend the day doing the usual mundane household tasks. Then, by virtue of some shameless bribery, I force Josh and Connie to make their duty calls to the extended family.

When I hear Connie earnestly explaining oral sex to Aunty Edith - presumably unasked - I decide to see if I am able to tolerate gin again. Sometimes I think we should have Connie tested for Aspergers, but I'm not sure I'd really want to know the result.

I don't know if Max was listening to Connie, so it may be a coincidence but, when we finally fall into bed, we somehow find the energy for our bi-annual shag. It's very nice, and Max wonders aloud why we don't do it more often. I reply that it may have something to do with his love affair with the TV, to which he laughs as if I had been joking.

There's some blood on the sheets afterwards, though, and Max says,

"What's this? Have you got your period?"

"No," I say, while trying not to panic. "My hymen probably grew back."

He doesn't laugh, and all that restored closeness evaporates at one lash of my tongue. There must be a market somewhere for that kind of deadly weapon.