“Those shorts you’re wearing,” observes the wife, “they make your balls look massive.”
“I was just popping out to the shops. Do you think I should change?”
“You can’t go to the little Asda in those. They’re obscene. They’ll think you’re a space hopper salesman and you’ve brought two samples along.” She laughs at her own joke. Picks up the phone and starts typing.
“Don’t send that to your school mother’s chat group,” I beg.
“It’s got three likes already. Do you want me to read the comments?”
I love my wife dearly but I’m becoming increasingly alarmed at how fast she can type ‘space hoppers’. Undeterred, I decide to pop out to the little Asda in my sexy, sexy shorts. I’m not worried. I’m 50, fat and bald. Women aren’t checking me out. They wouldn’t notice me if I walked into the little Asda with a Catherine wheel shoved up my arse singing ‘9 to 5’ by Dolly Parton.
“Before you pop out,” says the wife, “I need to take some pictures. The girls are demanding it.”
“This mother’s chat group,” I say. “It seems to revel in husband humiliation. Is that why you took so many pictures of me wearing that tight t-shirt with all the zips on it?”
“I’d rather not say.”