So I arrived home before her, kicked off my shoes and turned on the football. I put on my Liverpool jersey because that's what men do when they're watching the football, and cracked open a can of Carlsberg.
Next thing I heard the lock going, she was fiddling with her keys, so I turned off the telly, put on my apron and happened a spatula to my grasp.
She walked in.
"Oh I had the hardest day. And look! I'm drenched."
I gave her a cursory peck on the cheek and told her to get out of those wet clothes. She went into the bedroom and I to the bathroom. I lit all her candles for her and ran her a nice hot bath with Radox bath salts (now with micro-scrubbing-actimides for extra relaxability).
"Aaaaaaahhhhh. That's nice...." I heard her say as I opened up the Erin Soupfulls, that's E.R.I.N.S.O.U.P.F.U.L.L.S. and deposited the contents into a pot to simmer away at a time to coincide perfectly with my love's washing, repeating, rinsing and pruning.
Her bathing complete she dried herself off, leaving her hair all lank and damp and cute and lovely, and walked into the magnificently appointed kitchen-cum-dining space where I had set out our meal on the Ikea dining table with a nice bottle of red.
I reached for the remote control to switch back on the footy before she playfully slapped my hand away from it. I could do nothing but take a satisfied swallow of my beefy mixture and smile wryly at the camera.