KENNY: Well, that’s a lovely welcome. I do live here, don’t I?

FIONA: You don’t usually come home on Friday nights.

KENNY: Unpredictable. That’s part of my charm. [He looks at her.] What’s wrong with you?

FIONA: Nothing.

KENNY: Well, how about a bit of a smile, then?

FIONA tries a weak smile.

KENNY: Christ. If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to watch the box.

He takes his bottles across to the couch, puts them down, flops down himself, reaches for the remote control and switches on the television. He watches for a couple of seconds, then turns around to FIONA.

Chuck us the bottle opener.

FIONA goes to a drawer in the kitchen.

And a glass.

She takes a bottle opener out of the drawer and reaches for a glass. She hesitates.

FIONA: Er… I… er… wasn’t expecting you home, so I haven’t cooked any tea. Why don’t you go and have a counter tea with the boys?

KENNY: Just knock us up a quick steak or somethin’. [Irritated] Where’s that bloody opener?

FIONA takes him the glass and the opener.

FIONA: Why don’t you go and have a counter tea with the boys?

KENNY: [looking at her with irritation] I said knock us up a steak.

FIONA: I can’t. I’m ironing.

KENNY has another drink and watches the television for a second. He gets up and moves across to FIONA, who irons nervously.

KENNY: My God. You are ironing. Something must be wrong. [He picks up something she has ironed.] My God. [Looking at the ironing she has done] Don’t notice anything of mine here, but I shouldn’t complain. It’s amazin’ to even see you with an iron in your hand. Last time you ironed one of my shirts was two days before we were married.

FIONA: Why don’t you go off and have a counter tea with the boys?

KENNY: [angrily] What is this? Are you tryin’ to get rid of me? A bloke decides to do the right thing and come home to his missus and he’s no sooner in the door than you’re tryin’ to get rid of him. [Suddenly suspicious] Are you on with some other bloke? Is that why you want to get rid of me?

FIONA: Of course not.

KENNY moves across and rummages through a pile of washing nearby.

KENNY: Hey! Whose underpants are these?

FIONA: They’re yours.

KENNY: [belligerent, suspicious] They are not mine.

FIONA: Don’t be so stupid.

KENNY: [taking the underpants across to FIONA] They’re not even my size.

FIONA: [looking] Yes they are. They’re thirty-fours.

KENNY: Is that my size?

FIONA nods and goes back to her ironing. KENNY still looks suspicious. He unbuttons his pants and pulls the tag on his present underpants into view.

[Triumphantly] These are thirty-sixes!

FIONA: [wearily] They’re the pair your mother brought you.

KENNY: [deflated] Aw.

KENNY buttons up his pants and goes back to the television. He watches it for a few seconds then turns around.

Knock us up a bit of steak, love.