"Give me a hand hang these up, will you?" I'm short on pronouns and full of domestic intent. I don't really need help to hang the armful of washing over the clothes horse, but it's important to me that he be involved. Because then I am not washing his grubby knickers. When he hangs clothes and makes tea, we're living together.
"Sure" he says, and sets to puzzling over the best way to drape the jammies. So I show him. I shake out the trouser legs in as unpatronising a manner as I can manage and then turn to see him lurching towards me with my opaque black tights pulled over his head. He's pouting through his mask, giggles stifled by the nylon. "Give us a fuckin' kiss" he demands, in what would be a menacing Belfast brogue, were his mush not mashed into the gooch of my tights.
"Sure" he says, and sets to puzzling over the best way to drape the jammies. So I show him. I shake out the trouser legs in as unpatronising a manner as I can manage and then turn to see him lurching towards me with my opaque black tights pulled over his head. He's pouting through his mask, giggles stifled by the nylon. "Give us a fuckin' kiss" he demands, in what would be a menacing Belfast brogue, were his mush not mashed into the gooch of my tights.
