My wife's ovulating. I'm in Rome. She's in London. This is a problem. My little tadpoles are finding it hard enough to swim the 10 inches up her tubes - asking them to bridge an ocean to boot is optimism bordering on hubris. The solution: she's coming to see me.
Miraculously, this last-minute decision somehow coincided with British Airways - presumably by accident - allowing her to use my airmiles to nip over here for just £78 tax. The odds on that happening are even less favourable than getting my wife pregnant. Perhaps it's a sign?
By the time she gets in, it's 11pm. I've switched off CSI Miami with Arabic subtitles, and already turned over. She's excitable. I need to be up in five hours. She tosses the lube on the bed, undresses and spreads her legs like a starfish. "This will be quick," I tell her, as if I needed to. I shoot my load, lift her legs up to let gravity work its magic, and fall asleep.
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