My arsehole is beginning to cause me some grief (arseholes can do that). He’s found his voice and he’s biting back with an increasingly entitled air. And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee. He quotes St Paul at me (arseholes can do that), reminding me that there's a special kind of honour in the more uncomely places; those special, hidden parts. Nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of thee. He will tell me, when we are shopping, that, after all these years of unseen, loyal service, he deserves the best: luxury; fragranced; three-ply; aloe-vera-moistened tissue. And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it. I don’t believe him.