Dirty stairs

A frisson of excitement fluttered through me as I bent double on the third stair from the top, dustpan in left hand, hard-bristled brush in right, vigorously brushing the crack between the flat bit and riser of the top stair. Gingerly, I backed down a step, breathing deeply as I started to attack the next stair. It was then that the realisation hit me that my life had become somewhat mundane. True, I had painted a lively portrait of an exotic lady on Tuesday, but this chore had pathetically sent my pulses racing. Not only that, I was cleaning even though no visitors were expected! By the time I'd denuded the fourth stair of dirt (my target number for the day as it happens) I had worked out a plan to get the zing back into my life.

'Darling,' I purred.

Mr A dragged his attention from the Murray match, a brief startled look shooting into his eyes as he took me in before turning back to the tennis game.

I had discarded my jumper and bra for a see-through top, and the dustpan and brush for a feathery anti-static mop that I wafted seductively over his crotch.

'Get off,' he said, grumpily, 'Murray could win this.'

'I've been practising,' I said in my sexy voice, 'if you come with me to the stairs I could tickle the crack between your flat bit and the riser.'

'No thanks, but I'd like it if ... Good shot Andy!'

Knowing the stairs weren't a good place for such activities, I waited for his suggested change of venue. 'You'd like it if what?' I prompted, jutting forward a hip.

'I'd like it if you'd put the kettle on. I'm dying for a cuppa.'

He wondered why I hit him, but, to tell you the truth, when I thought about it later, I was slightly relieved. Shenanigans on the stairs at our age could have ended in disaster and it would have been difficult explaining it to the medics, and our neighbours, and the kids!