Victoriporn

He wished she didn’t always want to wrestle for the last sandwich.

It wasn’t raining, so she was forced to conclude he’d only brought the umbrella for the sake of a cheap joke about getting it up.

She thought, “if he makes one more joke about my big end, I’ll slash his bloody tires.”

It had been a mistake to go to the Boxing Day furniture sales while they were still drunk.

She’d always loved a man with a nice shiny helmet.

(I know, I know… that one wrote itself. But ask yourself if you could have resisted it.)

Of all the stupid questions he could have asked. “How do you think I’m staying on this bike,” she snarled.

Her damn kids had been painting on the bathroom wall again.

When he’d mentioned giving her a pearl necklace, she’d never for a moment suspected he meant jewellery.

The photographer had assured her that if there was an antique vase in the picture, that made it art, not porn.

The Nosferatu screen test had gone well.