Dafydd nodded his agreement and unconsciously rubbed the dull ache in the bottom of his back. Tom continued to read from the glossy sales catalogue.

“They won’t sag or go lumpy, and they absorb and release body moisture efficiently.’’

‘That’s just disgusting at breakfast time, Tom,’ Dafydd said, pulling a face. ‘I don’t want to think about the mattress we sleep on absorbing all that sweat and…. Anyway, I thought that’s what mattress covers are for.’

Putting the brochure down and buttering the last crust-free triangle from the toast-rack, Tom’s little finger made rapid, comically graceful circles in the air each time he drew the knife across the toast.

‘If you ever bothered to strip our bed, my dear,’ he chided, ‘you’d appreciate why some people put their boxer shorts back on after sex.’

‘That’s enough!’ Dafydd protested. And with the slow dawning of acute embarrassment’s possibility, he asked sheepishly, ‘Does Mrs Mac ever do the bed for us?’

‘As if!’ Tom said, raising both hands to his cheeks in feigned astonishment. ‘She doesn’t even clean the toilet for us, Dafydd…. She’s strictly hoovering and dusting so I don’t think she’ll ever blackmail you. Anyway, every man who screws, sweats and pisses gets stains on the mattress; life’s like that, and who’d want any other kind of man, hmm?’

Dafydd shrugged and grimaced, ‘You’re probably right, but I can’t be doing with this kind of talk at the breakfast table. Why don’t you just mark the ones in the brochures you think will do for us and I’ll have a look later.’

After reluctantly scanning the leaflets and accepting Tom’s bribe of lunch in Chester, Dafydd conceded defeat. They were whizzing along the A55 even before the breakfast dishes had been rinsed off and stacked in the washer.

Once they’d declared their interest in the lower end of the up-market ranges the assistant at Asleep-eezy followed them around like a sissy’s poodle.

‘We’d like to take a look on our own if that’s all right,’ Tom said, echoing her tone of forced politeness. ‘We’ll come to you if we’ve got any questions.’

‘Oh…. It’s no trouble, gentlemen. I’m Mrs Chessington, the senior floor manager,’ she said obsequiously. ‘I’m here to make sure that you know exactly what kind of bed it is you want, and more importantly, to help you know what you’re getting for your money once you’ve decided. Good beds don’t come cheap, gentlemen. Now then,’ she said, upping her tone into the bossy range, ‘it’s a single you’re looking for, is it?’

Dafydd searched her powdered face for any hint of malevolence, while Tom countered, ‘Actually, no.’ And then, with the flair of an opera diva in his movements and defiance in his eyes, he put his arm around Dafydd and said, ‘We hadn’t thought of moving into single beds just yet, had we darling? We’re looking for a five-foot, and it has to be six-foot-six long. I mean – just look at the two of us; a bit tubby for a four-foot-six, don’t you think? And it has to be firm,’ he said, nuzzling up to Dafydd, ‘We both like it firm, don’t we, dear?’