“What the bloody hell have you bought again, woman?”

My husband rolls his eyes as I haul my brobdingnagian bag of “essential” holiday purchases through the hall.

“Summer goodies.”

He goes through the tiki glasses, jam jars, flowery plates, gingham dress, ruffle skirts and several duck-in-wellies ornaments. Lastly, he holds up a set of knickers with nautical stripes and crustaceans.

“What? Can’t I have crabs and lobsters on my arse?”

He ceremoniously pulls a wooden spoon from the utensil jar.

“You want lobster arse? I’ll give you lobster arse.”

Dinner will be late tonight.

Or not happen at all.