30:15 BBS; Your serve.

A beautiful, spacious hallway greeted all that entered No. 25, Dog Track Lane, Pontefract. Molly had fallen in love with the Victorian terraced house as soon as she clapped eyes on it. Having sold the house she once shared with her late husband Jimmy Arbuckle, Molly quickly snapped up the bargain that was No. 25.

'Yorkie's Removals: Big enough to matter, small enough to care' had shifted the vast majority of Molly's furniture etc. Her personal belonging's and children were driven up personally by Molly. Always a meticulous house keeper, Molly supervised the removal guys personally.

"Where's this washing machine going luv?" Yorkie asked, aiding his assistant to remove the front loader from the back of the truck.

"In the kitchen please" Molly smiled.

"And this sideboard....? You putting that in the hall luv?" Yorkie asked.

"Aye, that's right dear, If you just bung it against the wall for now I'll sort it out later."

"Ok luv. What about this corpse you've got rolled up in this old lump of carpet. Under the stairs I presume luv?"

"Corpse? Oh, you mean the electrical shop guy! Er...yes, that's an idea. Dump him under the stairs for now. I'll dispose of him in a nearby ditch, or piece of deserted wasteland once I've got all the other stuff sorted." Molly smiled.

By now she had a new boyfriend called Graham Potter-Jenkins. A local lad to the area, he had met Molly when she was in the town some weeks previous, when first house-hunting. Tall, handsome, intelligent, witty, first class lover; he was every bit the stereotypical Yorkshireman. Graham knew how to treat a lady, and Molly lapped up the attention and flattery afforded her by her new bloke.

"Ecky-thump lass! I'll go t' foot of ar' stairs! Tha's soon gor'all yer crap chucked in a'nt tha'?" He smiled, tweaking Molly's tit as he spoke. He had just got back from the dole office where he'd been to collect his pancrack. Entering the love nest he one day hoped to share with Molly, he flicked his boots off and slumped on the sofa.

"Stick t'kettle on, there's a good lass." He lovingly requested of Molly. "And shut them soddin' kids up will yer? Lil' bastards get on me tits" he lovingly grunted. Typically, Molly failed to immediately respond to her master's request, and understandably Graham wasn't impressed.

"Er...Earth callin' bollock-brain! Didn't I tell yer to stick t'kettle on? Am I talkin' to mesen? Get yer arse in yer kitchen woman, 'n'mek the man a drink! I've been stood in that bleedin' queue over an hour!"

Molly finally did what she was told. She had always been a disobedient wench, and had rightfully received a few back-handers for her insolence over the years. She urged the kids to keep quiet, who were outside, playfully tossing dog muck over the fence at the neighbours car. She made Graham his cuppa, but in her haste to make up for her previous, typically sloppy response to his request, she gormlessly forgot to put any sugar in it.

Needless to say, she got her comeuppance for her tomfoolery in the shape of a firm rabbit punch to the gut, courtesy of Graham's right fist. In a bid to extract some form of ill-deserved sympathy, she meekly lay there whincing and gasping. Not that it cut any ice with Graham. He'd seen this old trick once too often. He gave no sympathy, no remorse. What he did offer was a kick up the arse, which Molly received whether she wanted it or not. He put his boots back on first of course, to avoid risking a metatarsul injury.

"Tha'll get no compassion from me, when tha' shows none t' me in t'first place woman!" Graham hissed, as he headed off to the pub to blow his social money, leaving Molly to stew in her own juices. Graham's experience with women had taught him the best thing you could do after giving your bitch a good slapping, was to leave them to think about why they'd got it in the first place. That way, they either came to their senses and didn't forget the sugar ever again, or the cycle started over again with another wallop.

That night after Molly had tucked the kids up, she lay on her bed and decided to watch a bit of telly. She sat with a cold damp flannel on her ribs, to help ease the pain where the bottom two had been burst by Graham. It was 9pm before her boyfriend returned from the pub. Molly, having heard his key fumbling in the lock, switched off the TV, and laid down. Typically, she didn't feel to urge to go down and help Graham in. Despite knowing he was probably pissed as a newt, and would understandably have trouble walking, let alone negotiating a tricky lock, she just lay there, feigning fear, such was her egocentricity.

Finally, he was in, and headed up the stairs to the bedroom. Semi-undressed, he climbed into the bed. He didn't bother to brush his teeth, as he knew how much the smell of stale ale and fags on his breath turned women on. He could read women like that. He leant across and between hiccups, whispered romantically somewhere in the region of Molly's earhole:

"Get' yer slacks off you! Yer wearin' this!" Molly knew what he was referring to, yet inexplicably she was reluctant to join in any sexual activity. Still, not wanting anymore broken bones, she decided to allow Graham to go ahead and do as he wished.

"Pull the blankets up when you've finished will you? I'm gonna get me head down." she mutterd, after removing her pants.

The next morning, Molly dressed the kids. She took them all to school then came home. She tidied up the downstairs, then the kids room, before doing her own. The bed was particularly difficult to make, what with the lifeless body of Graham Potter-Jenkins cluttering it up, complete with a huge iron-shaped indentation in his forehead. She returned downstairs, and set off to the second hand shop.

"Good morning miss, can I help you?" The smiling chap greeted her.

"Morning. You don't fix iron's do you by any chance? And I'm looking for an old rug, if you have any."