Twisting around at the sudden scream, he saw the knife pointing at his groin. Her expression seemed frozen into a mask of horror. Unable to apologise, he stared into those dark, menacing eyes which forbade any feeble excuses.

Then he found his voice; a small childish voice, 'I didn't mean to.'

And those eyes widened into large, white orbs of disbelief. 'Kneel down!' she said, lowering the knife indicating the place where he should kneel.

Slowly, getting down into a praying position, he pleaded, 'My darling, you know what I'm like? Weak. Yes, weak.'

'Shut up,!' she yelled, taking a step towards him, the knife now inches away from the top of his bald head.

Terrified, he lowered his gaze away from that steely glint, felt a drop of liquid fall onto his pate where it dribbled down over his forehead to the tip of his nose. Instinctively, Partick put his tongue out to catch a small droplet that tasted of oranges.

He edged backwards on his knees like a pilgrim reversing. 'I won't do it again love,' he wheedled, his gaze catching the remnants of his desire scattered about the carpet.

'You promised me, Patrick,' she hissed. 'You said said you'd give them up for Lent.'

He went down onto his arms like a dog, his large paunch resting upon a sheepskin rug. 'Please, darling,' he cried, seeing those pretty chocolate papers glinting like rubies, emeralds and sapphires scattered in his haste to eat as many as he could.

So wrapped up in his shame and misery, he didn't hear his wife move away, open his wardrobe door and only when the sound of her trimuph reached him, did he look up and see all his XXXL clothes had been torn to shreds.