A pendulum swing to the third month after the whirlwind romance, proposal, wedding and exotic-islanding, he ‘wormed’ home late one night. He reeked of whisky, sweat and cheap, cheap sex. He did not say hello, could not. He just sprang and slapped the angel in her face, mumbling something about her sitting in his chair. Fuelled by filth and guilt, the force (no farce) of his swinging arm flung a condom pack out of his shirt pocket. Guilty!