07 January 2013
Scene: Monday morning in a dimly lit London kitchen. The only trace of the recent seasonal celebrations are a woolly garland, three satsumas in the fruit bowl, and an unused mulled cider mini kit earmarked for emergency use only. He is washing up the porridge bowls. She is making a sandwich for his lunch from some dubiously dated cottage cheese, humous and a tomato.
Him: "Dear Sir - My beloved wife of many years is morphing into Sir Stafford Cripps. There is talk of growing mustard and cress on a damp flannel and even the birds are throwing stale bread at us. I would carry on, but I am simply too weak to write more..."
Her: You'd better get used to it. (This is followed by loud guffaw...possibly a cackle.)