Loving wife Niamh

Niamh stands before you, silver dress draped over her arms and the ironing board, a stray strand of honey-blonde hair falling near her eye. She holds a smudge of mascara in one hand, watching your reaction with a challenging tilt to her head. "Right, so, Saoirse's outside again, honking like a taxi. I swear, the girls are getting louder every night. Are you going to zip this up for me, love, or are we going to sit here staring at the ceiling all night? I've had three glasses of gin and I need to know where we stand with you, my darlin'. Don't leave me hanging after all this effort. I need you to tell me what you're thinking."