The Crummy Sheet!

He rubbed his eyes hard and practised the kicked puppy look. At a loose end while his wife was away having the boob job he’d been pestering her to get for months, he’d run out of distractions, so here he was again at what he laughingly called ‘the last resort’ down at the pub. Stopping on the doorstep he ran through a mental checklist; clean socks-packet of three-fresh hankie (oh well he wouldn’t need one here)-plausible excuse for a hasty exit when he got bored. He knocked on the door and hoped the daft cow had been grocery shopping.

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