Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?

by Kristen Bailey

Genres: Family Life; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

‘One of the funniest books I have read. Ever!… I absolutely LOVED this book and I just know that it’s going to be in my top books of the year!’ Star Crossed Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

It’s normal for your washing machine to get more action than you, right? I wake up, bleary-eyed. It’s been two years, six months and three hours since I last shaved my legs, and the llama-patterned knickers I’m wearing have seen better days. We have seven minutes before the kids wake up, and my husband shuffles closer. ‘Ouch,’ he says, a piece of Lego sticking into his back. Then, a light comes on in the landing. Small footsteps creep down the stairs. A little voice screams, ‘IS SOMEONE COMING TO MAKE BREAKFAST?!’ All hope of having some ‘alone time’ is replaced with wondering if we’ve run out of Cheerios, thinking about the overflowing laundry, and remembering that I forgot to take out the recycling. Again. Just a typical Monday morning for the Morton family… Except today, when I go downstairs in my dressing gown, I find something. Something belonging to my husband. Something that definitely wasn’t in the wedding vows. And it’s either going to make us… or break us. An utterly hilarious and unmissable novel for anyone who has ever felt like they spend more time washing the dishes than getting lucky. Fans of Why Mummy Drinks and The Unmumsy Mum, and rom-coms by Sophie Ranald and Sophie Kinsella, will ugly laugh at this gloriously funny and relatable read. Readers totally love Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life? : ‘ Absolutely hilarious!! Seriously, I haven’t been able to put this one down!… I have not stopped laughing... One of those books which is perfect after a stressful day because you are guaranteed to laugh out loud… Loved it… Devoured this book in just a few hours… Impossible to put down.' Little Miss Book Lover 87, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ I’ve read books which have made me laugh before – but this time I couldn't stop!… I have giggled hysterically… It's so very, very funny! My long suffering other-half is used to me giggling maniacally when I'm reading, but this took things to a whole new level… A right good laugh… Absolutely hilarious… Yes, it's THAT funny! Without a doubt, worth a full house of stars.’ Grace J Reviewer Lady, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Oh my days… I was howling in bed! The hubby wasn’t happy… Said that amount of laughter should not be coming from the bedroom! ’ Emma the Little Book Worm, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Tears were running down my face, I was laughing so hard.’ I Am Indeed, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘ Hilarious. It will have you laughing out loud from beginning to end! Brilliant… I’m still smiling about this book now.’ Between the Pages Book Club, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘ I just could not stop laughing.’ Crossroad Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Whoa!!... Kept me laughing… Had me in splits… This book was perfect.’ Shalini’s Books & Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘ Absolutely brilliant… I have never laughed aloud so much… I so want this book to be the bestseller of 2020… Safe to say I will be gifting copies of this book to my female friends.’ Goodreads Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Hilarious… Had me laughing out loud… I genuinely loved this book.’ The Bespectacled Bibliophile, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ A laugh-a-minute comedy… I began laughing at about page 2 and didn’t stop until the end… Funny-as-hell!! I challenge anyone, man or woman, to read this book and not find at least one bit of it where you can say “yep…that’s my life”!!! This is a book that I started reading with tears in my eyes from laughing and rounded it off wonderfully with tears of sadness!!!… Fab, fab, fab!!! ' Stardust Book Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ The laughs never stopped… Will give you a good bellyache from laughter.’ DarnCuteBookReviewGirl, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: February 14, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 380

Sample

Back then I wouldn’t have said I was a bitch exactly, but I was all the things that came from being a young professional Londoner: I was broadly cynical, deep into a free overdraft, my bloodstream was a mix of takeaways and watered-down cocktails, and I was prone to meltdowns over stolen teabags and my flatmates interrupting my sleep. I was a city girl working in magazine publishing, so naturally I was also a superficial douche. This was why when I first met Danny Morton, I was obsessed by his spectacularly ugly shoes. Footwear that hideous will brand itself into a girl’s memory; that and the moment I barged past, half-cut, spilling my overpriced White Russian all over him.

‘Oh bollocks…! Wow…’ I said the wow as I glanced down at his shoes being showered in my cocktail. Maybe the drink would make them less ugly? I giggled to myself. We were in a Soho pub, full of London’s finest cosmopolitan wankery, loafers and neon trainers and this gentleman had on clumpy walking boots, like he was setting off up a mountain or had come to fix my sink. ‘Those look sturdy.’

He wasn’t impressed or bothered. ‘Where I come from, a lass would apologise.’

‘Oooooh, “Where I come from”?’ I mimicked his broad Northern accent. I couldn’t pinpoint it. North for me was anywhere past Brent Cross. ‘Manchester?’ That’s North.

He eyeballed me. Was he handsome? Frankly who knew, I was so boozed up. He held out a hand.

‘Danny Morton, how do you do…’

I really was drunk. I curtseyed.

‘Meg Callaghan, very well, thank you.’ I said with a strange affected posh voice.

He smiled. ‘I haven’t had an apology yet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t sound sure about that?’

‘You’re a bit bolshy.’

‘You’re a bit rude.’ He turned his back to me. ‘Fookin’ Southerners.’

I’m not sure why but this struck a chord that I couldn’t ignore. I was never precious about where I was from or who I was. I quite liked being a Londoner; it meant that I was trendy, metropolitan and globally aware by association. But he was surly and quite frankly, a bit of a tit. Have I mentioned I was also very drunk?

‘Oh piss off, fucking Liam Gallagher.’

I’m not sure why I compared him to Liam Gallagher; it may have been the ape like persona and the fact I’d committed to him hailing from Manchester, but Britpop was all the rage back then. I was also fully aware that to support the fact that I was indeed a fully-fledged Londoner, I may have replaced my accent and gone all Cockney on him.

‘Facking?’ he said quizzically back at me.

‘Fooking,’ I replied.

He laughed. I wasn’t sure why. He looked me in the eye and did this strange action where he seemed to be doffing an imaginary flat cap. I thought it was quite charming but I was still offended by his aversion to my Southerness and frankly confused by the shoes situation.

An arm reached over my shoulder at that point. ‘Holy flaps, Meggers. We can’t drink here anymore. Bloke at two o’clock, I think I may have shagged him and peed in his kitchen sink because I couldn’t find the toilet in his house. I think his name is Ron.’

Bloody Beth. She stopped for a moment to check out my new Northern acquaintance. He, in return, stared intently at the sort of person feral enough to piss in a sink. Danny and I turned to see the man in question. ‘Ron’ had a strange centre parting and fringe curtains. I felt pangs of disappointment for my sister. Beth was still eyeing up Danny, but her expression read horror when she got to the shoes.

‘I’m Beth. I’m the sister. She’s Meg and she’s single.’

Beth was newly graduated and excitable. Her main agenda seemed to be recreating her university experience in the real world but constantly moaning about how everything was far more expensive and that she didn’t like it. She was training to be a teacher, with an agenda to save the kids from themselves. However, they swore at her and she was slowly realising poetry wasn’t something that could be taught via the power of rap. It meant we usually ended our weeks with ‘a drink to see in the weekend’ that turned into us one hundred quid shy by the morning with handbags full of soggy spring rolls from hitting the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet at 3 a.m. That night, Beth was off her face, varifocal drunk due to an uncontrollable set of Year 8s. It meant she shuffled on the spot, adjusting her vision like the sun had just hit her eyes.

‘She’s a journalist and that is all her own hair. She is a fricking catch,’ she said, pointing to me.

Danny Morton started laughing. Beth had the awesome ability of letting people into snippets of conversations in which they’d had no previous participation. She was referring to when ten minutes previously, we’d been talking about a girl at the bar whose extensions looked like they’d been applied with a hot glue gun. Beth proceeded to stroke my hair like one would a spaniel.

‘So, a journalist for what? Like the newspapers?’ Danny asked.

‘For Red magazine.’

‘Don’t read it.’ It was an absolute answer. But strangely, I found it very compelling. Too often, you mention you’re a journalist and people feign interest or come at you with their bullshittery. He seemed to have no concern about ingratiating himself to me.

‘You’re both sisters, eh? Got the same chin.’ His tone didn’t read as complimentary.

‘Yeah… and what of it?’ Beth replied. If anything, we were now starting to look like a couple of drunken townies out for a brawl. I was also very aware that Beth was losing rigidity in her legs. My main thought was how I was going to get her home. Fireman’s lift to a cab or drag her about on the Tube?

‘Were there dishes in sink?’ he asked.

‘What sink?’ Beth replied.

‘The one you urinated in after you shagged Ron over there.’ He gestured toward Mr Fringe Curtains and Beth shimmied to the side of me to hide both herself and her shame.

‘No?’ Her indignant reply led us to believe she wasn’t sure.

‘How could you not find a toilet in someone’s gaff?’

‘I was drunk, it was one of those giant shared houses where every door I opened was another bedroom or storage. I was busting. It was either the sink or the floor.’

What Danny did next was brilliant.

‘OI, RON!’

The group of men ‘Ron’ was stood with at the bar all turned around. Danny raised his beer at them. Beth went an even brighter shade of raspberry. The sheer audacity shocked me to silence; people around us went very quiet.

‘YOUR NAME RON, FELLA?’ He singled out the one in question.

‘My name’s Seb, mate.’

His friends were starting to puff out their chests in a territorial way. Man, this is how bar fights start, I thought. I was twenty-four and going to get glassed in a bar because my sister possibly took a whizz in this man’s sink.

Beth clung on to Danny’s arm. ‘Please stop talking now—’

‘NO BOTHER, BIRD HERE THOUGHT SHE KNEW YOU FROM BACK WHEN.’

Beth waved back. The men in the group shrugged and shook their heads. They also started to relax, wearing looks of pity now that perhaps Danny was just a bit of a social oddball. I was still trying to work out the Northern vernacular but as first impressions went was also surprised by the size of this man’s balls. I may have laughed to that effect.

Beth punched him in the arm. ‘I don’t belieeeeeve you!’

‘Just… there are a lot of people in London. Statistically, it can’t have been likely to be him. Did you use his dishcloth after to dab yourself down?’

By this time I was in hysterics. I was protective of my sisters but there was also fun to be had in winding them up and this man seemed intent on being an accomplice. Beth wasn’t getting the joke and hit him again. Another man appeared at this point, watching my drunken sister take him on.

‘Making friends again I see, Danny? You got beef with them tossers at the bar? We could take ‘em.’

Beth stopped play-hitting to give this gent the once over. I’ll admit he was the better looking of the two; better taste in footwear and denim and a well-defined jaw.

‘Ladies, I’m Stu… How do?’ He waved a continental beer about his person. He was the more relaxed of the two lads, too cocky for my liking. Beth’s demeanour changed and she re-jigged her boobs.

By the similarity of their accents, I had a punt. ‘Brothers?’ Danny said nothing but raised his ale bottle in the affirmative. ‘Same chins,’ I muttered. Danny smiled. Stu was giving Beth the eye while I tried to prop her up.

‘These two are sisters,’ said Danny. ‘Meg and Beth. She’s a journalist and this one likes to pee in sinks.’

I laughed. Stu did a thumbs up, the revelation clearly not deterring him from checking out my sister’s arse.

‘Excuse me,’ intervened Beth. ‘It could be worse, Megs here once shat outside someone’s front door.’ Oooh, deflection. Cow. She and Stu burst into laughter and I shook my head, slowly. Danny started sniggering but held a hand out for a high five. I placed my palm in the air and reluctantly engaged.

‘It was a dirty protest. I was at university and he was a sexual predator who’d taken advantage of a mate.’

Danny’s smile got broader. It was bizarre to think I was winning him over. He suddenly seemed more interested in me for being able to take a stand using the contents of my bowels.

‘Meg, rhymes with smeg…’ Stu joked. Beth thought this hilarious. It wasn’t, but Danny and I both read their intention instantly and I allowed Beth to drape herself off the better-looking brother while I stood there in awkward conversation with the older one.

Was there a spark with Danny? There was something refreshing about his candour and he seemed a solid sort. However, there was something that told me he was the kind of straight man who was here simply to drink. After he finished his dark ale (heave), he’d go home via a curry house in time to catch a re-run of Eurotrash. In the morning, he’d wake without a hangover and do something sensible like go for a run or walk a dog, a sensible dog with a Northern name like Lad.

I’m not even sure I’d been on the pull that night. At that point, I was free, easy, just keeping an eye open. I’d sworn off relationships for a while after Dexter. Dexter was an artsy wannabe writer; we’d lived together and, at the time, I’d thought he was profound and deeply intelligent. I’d envisioned a future selling his poetry leaflets and living off love and creativity. Then one day I said I didn’t get one of his poems. Next thing you know, he turned into a melodramatic shit who walked out and took my kettle. It was a bloody good kettle.

So you’re probably wondering how this evening panned out. Stu and Beth probably got it on, right? Some drunken sex back in a three-bedroomed shared flat, some open-mouthed snogging, the night ending with their bodies sprawled across a mattress that came with the rental (and had been treated for bed bugs, several times) and the swapping of phone numbers that may or may not have led to the sparks of a potential relationship.

No.

After Beth laughed at Stu’s rubbish smeg joke, we all got some shots in. The bar we were in played a rather lively mix of house music which Beth and Stu grinded away to quite inappropriately. Danny and I joined them like some sort of older sibling chaperones. There was gentle swaying on our part and a moment when the DJ played a dance remix of Britney Spears and Danny mouthed all the words to the chorus and seemed to know parts of the accompanying dance routine.

At about 11 p.m., Beth and Stu ended up outside the bar having a snog and a bit of inappropriate frottage against the doors of a closed artisan cake shop. They got a cab back to Beth’s place in Hammersmith but when she got through the door, she threw up in the hallway. That girl never knew how to mix her liquor. She was lucky that Stu didn’t take advantage of this. Instead, he waited outside the toilet for a while hearing her spewing, hoping it was just the one bout and he’d still be able to achieve congress that evening. However, after the toilet flushed for the third time, he popped his head around the door to wish her a good night. She didn’t respond. She dropped her phone in the loo. Before Stu left, he threw a bit of newspaper and bleach over the carpet thinking it was the kindly thing to do, but this only discoloured it greatly meaning Beth never got all of her security deposit back.

We bring this story up a lot when Beth and Stu meet, even though they hate it. They’ve always held a grudge for each other which I feel is more due to the embarrassment that they half had sex in the street. Five months after this, Beth met Will who became her long-time boyfriend. Stu shagged his way around London and at one point had a very serious case of gonorrhoea, which I knew about as Stu showed up on our doorstep one day grumbling that his wang was falling off and asking Danny how he could fix it.

At the same time Beth and Stu had been dry humping in the street, Danny and I stood beside our siblings, staring into space about the wheres and hows of getting home and wondering if we were hungry. We watched Beth and Stu get into a cab.

‘Come with us!’ they roared.

Danny and I declined politely and watched them drive off, their faces attached to each other in the back seat. I thought about chips and jumping in a taxi. Or maybe a bus. It was summer. I thought about walking, about my aching feet. Should I go home and make oven chips? That was a bind. I worked out which was the closest chippy/kebab shop and which was the less stingy when it came to garlic mayonnaise. I thought about texting my roommate, to see how her date went. It was with a bloke she’d met through her new yoga regime. I thought about what if I got home and they were going at it all tantric in the front room? Maybe I shouldn’t go home. I wasn’t prepared for what I heard next.

‘Fancy a fuck?’

I turned to look at Danny Morton. He said ‘fuck’ strangely – in deep guttural Northern tones. He was looking straight ahead so I wasn’t sure if he was even talking to me. I didn’t suppose he was so drunk that he was talking to the lamp post. He wasn’t shy, or coy about it. He knew exactly what he wanted. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Chips were suddenly not a priority. Danny stuck his hand out into the street and a taxi stopped. He got in the back and left the door open. I followed.

‘Victoria Park fella, Lauriston Road,’ he said to the driver.

We didn’t say anything to each other for the whole cab ride. I remember being sat on opposite sides of the seat and not even holding each other’s gaze. I’m not sure what the taxi driver must have thought. To any outsider, it may have looked like we were mid-fight, a cloud of some sort of tension sat between us. When Danny stopped the cab, he paid for it and held the door open for me. He opened the front door – a plaque on it claiming it to be the ‘Cumbrian Embassy’ – to a flat that was above a bohemian clothes shop. When he got through the door, he stepped in and I followed. He turned, closing the door with one hand behind me. He was unfeasibly close.

What happened next? Oh my days. I remember him pulling his body into mine. The kiss was extraordinary, exceptional: the hand to the back of my head, fingers tracing my collar bone. He turned and pinned me to the stairs. He said nothing. He parted my legs with his hand and moved his head down to my waist, pulling my skirt up. I could feel his lips through my knickers. He used his fingers to move the fabric to one side and I felt his tongue lightly press against me. I put my hands down on the steps to steady myself, mostly from the shock that he had located my clitoris. He then moved himself up over me, unbuckling his belt, removing my knickers and well, we had that fuck he was after.

And I remembered feeling aroused but strangely excited thinking about the times when first-time sex had not gone like this at all: the sloppy misaimed jabbing against my perineum, the neck lickers, that lad who convulsed and I was worried the power of Christ had compelled him. The time I had nearly garrotted someone with my handbag, coats getting in the way, sex that’s clumsy and you’re constantly apologising to each other. I simply felt surprise, pleasant surprise. He was of reasonable size and girth and knew exactly how to move. I’d never felt that build-up of energy within me to reciprocate. I pushed my hips against his, hearing him moan slightly.

But there was something else, equally as unnerving: he was looking at me. Into my eyes. The number of times you’d be looking over someone’s naked shoulder or have your face buried in a pillow. This couldn’t be more different. He cupped a hand around my face and just kept staring. I’d never felt more appreciated, but I was starting to feel unnerved that perhaps I wasn’t allowed to blink. I bulged my eyes slightly. His eyes creased and he laughed.

‘Come…’

He said that word Northern too. But he kept moving over me. I wasn’t sure it was a request, an order, or a competition but I could feel the energy, the warmth building up, my legs trembling. I remember coming. Hard, moaning loudly as his hands reached down to my naked thighs and he pushed harder, deeper into me. I remember having a momentary panic about STIs and pregnancy, set against the fact I’d just had amazing sex in a stairwell in East London and come like a fricking rocket.

He was still looking at me when the moment was interrupted by a key in the door. Stu stood there looking at his brother’s naked buttocks set against my straddled legs.

‘Oi!’ Danny said. ‘Close the door!’

I laughed.

‘You cheeky bastard. Is that her sister from bar?’

I was very aware that Danny was still inside me.

‘Would you close the door and give the lady her sodding dignity!’

I was hiding underneath Danny at this point.

‘Whatever, I’m going down the shops.’

He closed the door. Danny withdrew. Truth be told, I was too shocked to move. He sat there and scratched his head.

‘Y’alright?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He sat there half-mast. What to say next? Tell him I came? Ask him if he came? Something wildly romantic and sincere?

‘You fancy a cuppa?’ he uttered as he pulled up his undergarments and buckled up his trousers.

It was everything I wanted and more. ‘I quite fancy chips, too.’ I added.

‘I’ll text Stu… there’s a decent chippy down road.’

‘And I’ll take that tea if you’re offering. Milk, three sugars.’

‘Christ, how do you have any teeth left?’ I found this wildly amusing. ‘I’ll put brews on then, Meg Callaghan.’

‘Alright then, Danny Morton.’

He pulled me up and again our bodies folded into each other, his face next to mine, and he kissed me. The kiss was magnificent – and always has been since. The intensity, just the right amount of pressure, the way he pulls gently at my bottom lip, the perfect hand placement. But I also remember just feeling so incredibly safe. Danny Morton, I thought, with your ugly yet sensible shoes: go make me tea, bring me chips and fuck me like that for the rest of my life, please. I wish we’d written that into our wedding vows.

I always wake up the same way: a nest of hair, drool, fatigue aching through my bones, in one of his old T-shirts and a pair of multipack knickers that were once white but are now grey and sagging around the gusset. A hairy arm weaves itself around my midriff, weighted there like a log, and a bearded face rubs itself across my back. I’d like to say it’s pleasurable or intended to arouse but it’s become some sort of morning ritual whereby he’s almost rubbing his face against me to generate heat and wake himself up. I imagine squirrels do the same of a morning.

He finds a safe spot in the small of my back and wedges his morning erection between my butt cheeks. He doesn’t apologise for it anymore; it’s a given that it’ll be there, like his unnecessary need to grace the bedroom with a chorus of his flatulence. Most of the time it’s there to simply wake me up, having the same function as an alarm clock. Sometimes I rouse to him playing with it, other times to him asking me for help with a cheeky ‘hand shandy’. He’s set his aims higher this Monday morning though.

‘Fancy a fettle?’

I don’t move. I consider his romantic proposal. He rubs his feet over mine and moves a hand over one of my breasts, giving it a squeeze like it might make a comedy duck noise. Unremarkably, I am still not aroused, but there is a possibility he’s made me lactate. I turn to look at him.

‘Do I have to take off my top?’

‘Nah, just a flash… give me a visual.’

I nod, turn onto my back and lift my T-shirt to reveal unshaven armpits. I roll my knickers down, kicking them to the end of the bed. He clambers on top of me. I have vague flashbacks to a documentary about walruses. He rests an elbow either side of my head and looks me in the eye. I say in the eye – my eyes are closed and I drift in and out of sleep.

‘I’ll be quick. Just a speedy one before the girls get up. You ready?’

He kisses the underside of my chin so we can avoid offending each other with morning breath. His cock prods the inside of my flabby thigh. I push him back.

‘Go get a condom on.’

‘I won’t come in you, promise…’

‘Which means you’ll come on the sodding sheets and I only changed them a couple of days ago.’

‘You’re killing this…’ He sighs and reaches down to the bedside cabinet. ‘Why is this drawer filled with Lego?’ He finds a condom and then lies on his back, acting like sheathing himself up requires more concentration than is really needed. I won’t lie, I put my legs down and use the moment to sleep for a few more seconds. ‘Seeing as I’m here, hop on?’ he says.

‘Fat chance.’

He nestles his body on top of mine and kisses me on the nose. There is then a bit of wayward angling and poking until he finds his way inside me. By the way my body tenses, it’s quite clear that my vagina’s still asleep too. I will admit it is not unpleasant and I am grateful for the fact we can share some bodily warmth. Cosy’s the word. He thrusts into me a few times. He buries his face into my neck then raises his torso so the covers fly off and his body is at a right angle to mine, trying to bend my legs back at the hip.

‘Nah, that’s not happening.’

‘C’mon, I’ll get better purchase that way.’

‘It’s too effing cold!’

He admits I may be right and pulls the covers over us again, chest against mine, flattening my breasts. He thrusts deep into me. I pretend to be into it and grab his arse. Danny’s buttocks have evolved over the years but I’ve always overlooked the fact they’ve gone a little fuzzy given they’ve maintained their grabbability.

‘Shit!’ he says.

‘What?’ Please don’t be a split condom.

‘I forgot to take out the recycling bin…’

‘Glass? It’s fine. We’ll have time before the school run.’

He thrusts more rhythmically as he pushes me deeper into the mattress, the effort seeing him release small, quiet gasps of air. Then a light comes on in the landing. Crap. He halts and collapses into me like we’re frozen in a very close embrace. Small footsteps head down the stairs.

‘You better hurry, they’ll all be up soon.’

The rhythm picks up. You can see in his face that the thrusting may also be causing some over-exertion. Small beads of sweat form on his brow, his nostrils flare. A baby in the room next door whimpers.

‘Danny, just come already…’

‘I’m close… I can’t do it on demand, woman…’

I grind my hips knowing it’ll get him off. He freezes again at hearing a second set of footsteps, a toilet flushing. The baby is still whimpering.

‘Yep, keep doing that. Just like that…’

‘Keep your voice down—’

‘IS SOMEONE COMING TO MAKE BREAKFAST?’

‘YES! I’M COMING!’ I shout over his shoulder. Not really, not even close.

The baby is starting to gather volume. I lift my knees a little higher, starting to feel a little unimpressed I’ve been made to indulge in such athleticism on a Monday morning. And then a noise, his body tenses, legs straighten and his eyes roll back in their sockets. He collapses onto me. I grip on to his shoulders.

‘That’s the ticket.’ He kisses me on the ear then rolls off me.

‘I’M HUNGRY! AND TESS WON’T GIVE ME THE REMOTE CONTROL!’

‘WE’RE COMING! STOP SHOUTING!’ I call back.

We lie next to each other for a moment and I watch him ping off his condom.

‘Pass us a nappy sack.’

I grab one from my bedside table and watch him wrap up the offending item.

‘You want me to finger you?’

I study the small cracks on our ceiling. I’m not sure if I have the time, need or concentration to summon up an orgasm amidst warring siblings and the fact my downstairs region is still on snooze.

‘It’ll keep—’

I retrieve my knickers and rise to tend to the baby next door. As I leave, I see Danny lying there, a semi slumped over his groin like an earthworm that’s just broken through ground. His legs apart, his chest hair matted and glistening with sweat, seemingly unaffected by the fact the house is bloody Baltic. If he falls asleep, I will literally body slam him.

‘I SAID, IS SOMEONE COMING TO MAKE MY BREAKFAST?’ thunders up the stairs. It’s Eve, daughter number two who likes to be fed on time.

‘Danny…’

‘You’ve just taken me life force, give me a moment.’

‘You want Cheerios and tantrums or croup and a full nappy?’

‘Littl’un still have croup?’

‘She does.’ I know because I was up half the night with her. ‘Now get up before I grab you by the bollocks – and there’s leftover Vicks on these fingers.’

‘Kinky.’

He thinks I joke. Next door, the baby is not happy. I open her bedroom door and she stares at me stroppily from the corner of her cot. Her hair whipped to a frizz atop her head, her cheeks scarlet. She barks at me like a seal. I pick up her warm, sleepy body and cradle it close to mine as I bring her back into our room. Danny pulls the covers over his naked body.

‘Y’alright there Lemon Drop?’

Polly is Lemon Drop for no other reason than she has blonde hair and Danny is terrible with names. Yes, even with his own kids. I hand her over, slightly smug to know her bottom area is damp and fragrant. He sits up, putting a hand to her back and does that thing where he beats out a rhythm from a song in his head on her ribs. The dog pokes his head around the door to let us know he needs a whizz. The house awakens like a grizzly bear from hibernation except it’s cold, it’s always cold because I live in the North of England now and the version of cold up here is something my Southern bones have never quite got used to. Downstairs, I hear footsteps and the murmur of voices. The television? Eve is talking to someone. On the phone? To the cat?

‘You see, Polly has croup,’ she says. ‘So it’s probably why they’ve slept in and forgotten to feed me…’

‘Oh dear, Princess Polly’s not well?’

Bollocks. She’s actually let someone in the house. I arch my head over the landing. It’s Patrick.

‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ll be down in a minute,’ I call out.

Danny is the one who’s grinning now. I hope Polly pees on him. I tighten the sash of my dressing gown around my midriff and gallop down the stairs to find Patrick propped against the front door as Eve fills him in on the small injustices of her life. He smiles at me, as he always does. You see, our postman is a man called Patrick so essentially, we have a Postman Pat. I kid you not. When we moved up here, away from London and all that I’d ever known, it was the first thing that tickled m. . .