‘So what do ye call this?’
Phil looked up, his wife's shaking hand holding a card daubed with a red heart.
He shrugged, ‘Valentine’s card?’
‘From one of your skanky whores. You promised me ye’d stop slagging around …’, Phil ducked as the card hurtled towards him.
‘Babe, darling ... I promise … this has nowt to do with me.’
‘What like all the other ‘accidents’ were just slips of the cock. When I get back from work ye'd better be gone.’
The door slammed, Phil retrieved the card.
Fingers crossed the barmaid from the Red Lion had sent it.