Barry comes through the front door and into the kitchen, black satin jacket bellowing out the name of his employer [PC Cabs]. ‘Alright Rox, me lover?’ he says, all husky Cockney, not stopping for an answer, launching instead into a long and verbose tirade about modern road users and their overall cuntishness.

Rox takes it in her stride, waiting for an opportunity to ask about his date last night. She eventually finds it, throws it out there. ‘How did it go, then? With that bloke from St Austell?’

Barry, still standing up and leaning against the sink, turns his head toward her sharply. ‘Tell you what Rox, he was a lovely fella. Bought us a lovely meal and that.’

‘Did you go Dutch?’

‘You make it sound gay, Rox.’

‘Sorry Barry, didn’t make the connection there.’

‘Anyway, yeah, lovely fella. Toward the end of the night we took a walk out along the seafront. Smashing it was, him with his arm circled lightly around me.’

Macaulay comes into the kitchen, just woken up from the usual afternoon beer haze. ‘Alright Barry, alright Rox?’

‘Hello hello,’ says Barry. ‘You look a bit wobbly, son. Better get a proper night’s sleep, I reckon.’

Macaulay has a little wobble, gets to the fridge and takes out his final beer. He does a vague sort of semi-pirouette, pinballs back down the hallway, and is out of sight.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Barry. ‘What a mess.’

‘Tell me about it. In fact, don’t tell me about it. I’ve had it up to fucking here,’ she says, raising her sideways palm to her hairline. ‘Do me a favour, get me off the subject, it does my head in. So, how did it go after the beach?’

‘Well,’ Barry says, ‘it never got past the beach, really.’

‘Why not? Sounded like things were going along nicely.’

‘I thought so too, but then he turned his face towards me and kissed me. There we were, having a nice romantic evening, and he tried to mug me off with a bit of how’s your father. Fucking poofters, Rox, I fucking hate them.’