Shrouded in a blanket, she shuffles along, holding the edges closed as she struggles to get warm. Cold shivers erupt through her system, and she curses her boyfriend. The vehemence in her tone draws his attention away from his football supplement “What?”
“This…” she gestures down at the thick blanket draped around her shoulders. “It’s your fault that I’m wearing this! You and the bloody blokes from the footie!” She blows her nose loudly in illustration.
“How?” he closes the paper, knowing that she needs his full attention. The dishcloth incident of 1999 taught him that lesson, and he’s not forgotten it in years.
“You know how,” she shuffles out of the room again once she’s made herself a cup of tea, leaving him in no doubt that he had to buy something special.