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If there is anything better than leaving work early on a Friday afternoon in July, maybe it's knowing that you have the house to yourself for the whole weekend. These few precious days had been marked on my calendar for over a month now. Not any calendar at home of course. Jill, my wife, would have had a bird if she ever caught me looking forward to anything that brought me joy. Why? Because my beloved spouse of 14 years is a vindictive, hypersensitive, control freak who has dedicated her married life to denying me even the smallest of pleasures. But then what the hell, no need to dwell on that now. She and our daughter were gone till Sunday and for the next 48 hours my time belonged only to me.

I parked my car out on the street and sprinted up the stairs through my front door. Normally this was taboo: Jill insisted that I park in the alley that runs behind our house and use back door. (She claimed that too many coming and goings at the front of the house was a clear indication that the inhabitants were decidedly "lower-middle-class") I kicked off my shoes and left them in the hallway (another clear violation of the house rules), stopped to take a piss without the shutting the bathroom door (a divorce worthy offense) and shed my suit, leaving it in a heap on the floor of my bedroom (yes Jill, I was born in a barn). Shit, was I ever having fun. And the weekend had barely begun.

I rooted out my grubbiest T-shirt and most faded shorts and slipped them ...

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