Hidden from view, Daphne watched the scene unfold through the building window. What she saw sickened her. How could he?
She’d suspected him of playing away for months - their sex life was non-existent these days. So tonight she followed him. Now, watching her grinning husband proudly flaunt his shocking
deviance, she wished he was playing away. The truth was so much worse.
‘Good game of squash?’ she asked when he arrived home.
‘He ran me
ragged,’ George lied. ‘I stink. Straight in the bath for me. ’
While the water was running, Daphne sneaked upstairs and spied on her husband through the keyhole of the bedroom door. She watched him stuff his bag under all the junk at the back of his wardrobe. So that was where he’d been hiding it.
When George got in the bath, Daphne crept into the bedroom, grabbed the bag and sat on the bed. With a heavy heart, she emptied its contents. There they were - the instruments of his depravity. Silk scarves, ribbons, handkerchiefs, wooden sticks with tassels and shoes with bells on them. Shame flooded her soul. She was married to a Morris Dancer.
it her? Had she driven him to this? Thoughts of marriage guidance sessions raced through her mind. Then another thought appeared. She looked at the silk scarves. Then she looked at the bedposts. Then she smiled a dirty smile. Perhaps she was being a bit hasty. After all, a man should have a hobby.