‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. Might one know your name?’ Middle-aged and scrawny, he was bare-legged and underneath his shortie dressing gown Mrs Donaldson thought he might be bare altogether. ‘Donaldson.’ ‘Right. Mine’s Terry. I’ve been away.’ He put out his hand and as she shook it briefly the dressing gown fell open to reveal a pair of tangerine Y-fronts with, tucked into the waistband, a mobile phone. ‘Trouble in the back passage,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Mine not yours, dear,’ said Terry. ‘You’re just my wife.’ ‘I was given to understand,’ said Mrs Donaldson, ‘that it was your waterworks.’ ‘No fear.’ Terry hitched up his Y-fronts. ‘No way.’ ‘Frequency,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Waking at night.’ ‘Absolutely not. I go before I come to bed and then first thing in a morning. Well, you know that,’ and he sniggered. ‘You’re my wife.’ Mrs Donaldson took out a folder.
