by James Follett
He's home at 5.20 on the dot. A kiss from the wife as he goes indoors. A meal is waiting. Then a spot of weeding in an immaculate garden, then television. A nice cosy, ripple-free routine.
'Tomorrow, someone will declare war on that routine. Her combat-dress will be an indecently split-skirt, a tight sweater, and no bra.'