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pecked away at him with her tight mouth, and laundered vocabulary. Sheprobably gave it to him only for Christmas, or on his birthday. I didn’t even get it on those days, which probably accounted for my mounting hostility to the woman, and at this reminder of my long abstinence, I could have killed her. ‘You wanted something?’ I sneered.
    â€˜You were in the house,’ she said, hanging each word out to dry, ‘while a lady was screaming. Perhaps you were involved,’ she threatened.
    My hatred suddenly inspired me. ‘That was no woman screaming, Mrs Bakewell. The screaming came from Mr Johnson.’
    â€˜Rubbish,’ she spat, ‘that was a woman’s voice.’
    â€˜So it sounded,’ I said with dignity, ‘but it came from Mr Johnson after his wife had cut off his balls.’
    That’ll teach you, I thought, you frigid bitch, and the red flush that rose up her cockerel neck and blanched about the gills rewarded me, and proved that it had been well worth the try. I left it in the air and turned to go up the stairs. I felt that down below, no one, not even my wife, knew whether or not to take me seriously.
    I locked the door of my study. I had much to think about. After all, it was not every Sunday that I became a father. But why me, and it was this thought, out of all the morning’s activity, that lingered and most excited me. It was surely no accident that she had given my name. I know, and so do you by now – I have laboured it enough – that it is a good name, but there are dozens of men in the street whom she knows by name. And yet it had been mine. I had thought of my hyphenless handle in conjunction with many a profession; an explorer, a club secretary, a surgeon even. But an adulterer, never. And I began to have thoughts.
    I do not relish such thoughts, and there is only one way, for me at least, to get rid of them. If I put on my Sunday clothes, my lustful thoughts evaporate. It is an infallible cure for adulterous fancies, and though, as I grow older, I get the disease less and less frequently, I seem, for some unknown reason, to become more and more addicted to the cure. So I went to my wardrobe for my Sundays.
    I keep them in a separate hanging compartment, because they have nothing to do with the man who wears my ordinary clothes. I opened the cupboard and viewed my range. It is verylimited. I have never actually gone so far as to pay out good money for my Sundays. I make do with what my wife gives me. I’ve told you before that she is very understanding. She is tolerant and even indulgent of this little hobby of mine. She has given me her pink chiffon, her blue taffeta and her indispensable little black, that turned out to be not so indispensable after all. I am a little short on trappings and trimmings, and my only jewels are a string of her imitation pearls. Sometimes, I would slip into her bedroom and borrow some earrings, but I was not prepared to face that crowd in the hall. I debated which Sunday to put on, and I decided on the chiffon, remembering that I was down to my last pair of nylons, and that the chiffon was long enough to hide the ladders. I laid out the dress, the underwear, the shoes and stockings on my couch, and I started on my face.
    My vanity case was my last birthday present from my wife. She bought it especially for me, and its contents are extremely generous. First I applied my moisture cream, which is a must for a base, and in my make-up, as with most things, I am very particular. I waited a while, while my skin absorbed the cream. If you’re to make a good job of maquillage you have to be patient, and since this is the most exciting part of my Sunday ritual, I am prepared to spend a long time at it. I love the panstick application that comes next and the sudden transformation it effects to the texture and colour of the skin. A little rouge, high on the cheek bone, to give contour to the bone structure, then a mere