Today's husband is called Terry. He's the new foreman who's looking after the Polish Hoardes who've been endlessly repairing my windows for the council.
He turned up this morning, looking like Sean Bean after he'd showered in soot. He placed his hands on his hips and glared at my windows, which, after months of being reglazed, painted and refitted had just had the finishing touches applied to them, which meant that they were cracked, chipped and wouldn't open.
"What the fucking fuck is this?" he demanded, before continuing charming, "Right. Show me your fucking bedroom - it can't possibly be more fucking disgusting than this."