It's not like he's my boyfriend, just a bloke from work who comes over for some fun every now and then. Look, I don't have time for all the nonsense of dating and talking, what with nightshift at the factory and the driving back and forth to my old Mum's place to look after her. Things with him suit me well enough. But he's the jealous type, casual though we are. Last week he twisted my arm because I said I liked the look of this particular movie star and he didn't even have the decency to feel bad about it afterwards, and I've plenty more stories like that. For someone who reckoned he didn't give a stuff, he sure cared about being the only cock on the walk, if you get me.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, he pounds and kicks on my front door until I finally open it and there he is, stinking drunk. He says to me, Maureen, what were you doing with Smithy at meal break last night, and I say, what in blazes are you talking about you fool, because Smithy and I just happened to be sitting at the same cafeteria table, and so what of it? Then he goes, you was laughing with him, and I says, Smithy told me a good joke about the foreman, don't you want to hear it? And he hits me right here, right across the jaw, see the bruise? Then he drags me to my bedroom, rips the clothes off my back and hops right into it. He's holding me by the throat and sticking himself here, there and everywhere and he doesn't give a jot that I'm crying or begging him to stop, oh no, he just keeps going until he's finished and then there he lies. Snoring on my bloodied sheets with not a care in this world.

I stand in the shower for ages and ages but I can't wash him off me. I figure that maybe if I could get the bastard out of my house, I'd start to feel better about it all, so I go to my room and he's hunkered into my pillow and blissful, like he's going to stay for as long as he pleases. I get near him and I'm planning on shaking him awake and kicking him out but then I spot the cricket bat I keep next to the bed for protection. So I pick it up and I think to myself, okay then, mister tough guy, how are you going to like these apples? And that's the last thing I'm going to say until you get me a lawyer and a smoke.