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younger men. Tiny felt that the way he had converted his own try was sufficient proof that experience still counted for something. He was on his seventh pint when closing-time arrived, and was feeling beerily amorous.
    By the time he had covered the mile between pub and home, with one stopover behind a hedge, he was feeling full of sexual confidence. Fran had been a bit caustic about his recent failures, but she wouldn’t have anything to complain of tonight. Standing on the doorstep, fumbling for his latch key, he took a step back to examine the contents of his pocket in the light of the street lamp. There was a resounding crash as his right foot connected with a milk bottle. Cursing, Tiny picked up a few of the bigger pieces of glass and hurled them into a flower bed. He hoped she hadn’t heard the noise: she’d accuse him of being drunk
    As silently as his heavy body would allow, he opened the door and crept quietly up to the bedroom. Fran was sitting up reading a magazine. Not even the sight of her glistening face and sensible pyjamas could put him off tonight. Launching into a description of his afternoon’s triumph he began to undress hurriedly.
    ‘I gathered you’d won,’ she said icily. ‘You’d have crawled home earlier otherwise.’
    Tiny looked across at her pleadingly. ‘Oh, come on, love. You know how it is. The lads all wanted to stand me one because of that try. It was one of my best ever.’
    He propped himself against the dressing table as he removed his socks, thus guarding against the risk of staggering. Stripped to his underpants, he went over and sat down on the side of the bed. He couldn’t tell from her expression what mood she was in. At least that meant she couldn’t have heard the breaking glass. Leaning over, he kissed her rather clumsily, pushed her gently back on the pillows and began to murmur endearments. There were indications that, if not enthusiastic, she was at least being co-operative. As he shifted slightly to get himself into a more comfortable position, his elbow hit the glass of water on her bedside table and knocked it on to the bed. ‘You stupid oaf!’ she screamed, pushing him off her furiously. ‘You just can’t do anything without making a mess of it, can you?’
    Without a word, Tiny left her to mop up the water unaided. He crept into his own bed, a recent innovation of Fran’s to spare her contact with his night-time sweating. During the moments before beer and exhaustion claimed him for sleep, it flashed into his slightly fuddled brain that it would be days before she let him try again.
    As soon as the children had gone to bed Tony Farson went to his den and addressed himself to the double glazing issue. Gloria had been nagging him about it ever since next door had had it done. It took a long time to translate all the pros and cons into figures: estimated savings in heating costs and increase in the value of the house had to be balanced against the reduction in his capital and investment income. He heaved a sigh of relief when the final calculation came out in favour of going ahead. That should shut her up for a while. The woman was possessions-mad. When he thought of the way she had persuaded him into buying that music centre, he went hot and cold all over. The capital outlay had been bad enough, but now she was frittering money on tapes and records.
    He filed his papers away and let his mind stray back to his constant worry: Gloria just wouldn’t give up on that insane idea of having another baby. Tony cursed the fashion for third children. He had worked out the costs of a child over a twenty-year period and had almost fainted when he found what the total was. He had estimated what her lost income would be. He had even read up on the dangers of late pregnancies and warned darkly of the likelihood of having a mongol. No argument had any effect. He was determined not to give in this time, but he had an uneasy feeling she might be taking the law into her own