Lessons for a Sunday Father [antikvár]

Scott Last night, I had precisely nil hours', nil minutes' and nil seconds' sleep. Take a tip from me - if you ever have a major ding-dong with your wife, girlfriend, cohabiting-type person, don't do it after midnight. If you're in the wrong, and believe me, you're bound to be - when was it ever her fault? - skip the excuses, skip the justifications and cut straight to the grovelling. Least that way you might get to kip on the settee. After a night like I just had, you'd be grateful for it. It's always like that on the telly, isn't it? There's a row and then the man, always the man, is dossing down in the front room - notice the woman never ends up on the bloody couch - and if he's lucky she'll chuck a pillow and a blanket at him. Cheers, I love you too. Obviously, Gail's never paid enough attention or she'd have known that's how it goes. I should have filled her in: 'No, Gail, this is where you banish me to the front room and you stomp upstairs and slam the bedroom door.' Then it'd be cut to corny close-up of our wedding photo falling off the mantelpiece. But by that time I'm already on the wrong side of the front door, wishing I'd got my jacket and my mobile rather than a sodding tea-towel which doesn't look like it's going to be much use in saving me from freezing to death. Thoughts whirled round my head like water going