We went to see him later (on Saturday night) and he was sitting on his hospital bed, getting pelters from my missus for still being in his dirty kit, absolutely stinking.
On my football field, I know what bliss is. My team cuddles more than the missus. We won't inject drugs, just oodles of hugs. I warm up my team with some kisses.
I'd like to work with the missus, but there's nothing in the pipeline at the moment.
What goes on between a man and his missus is nobody's business; especially where desert toppin's involved.
If my missus is there and she approves of the person I get to bite boobs - and necks.
To take advantage of the last precious minutes, you've got to stay afield as late as the birds do, regardless of a houseful of guests, the sanguine promises you've made the missus, or the overdraft bank notice at home. To heck with everybody and everything when birds are feeding and fish are biting. Stay late and lie like a dog if necessary.
We are not that flash, me or the missus. In fact, we are quite low-maintenance.
