I kiss him lustily, and then pull away to whisper in his ear, “Don’t say that you’re my boss.” He shudders wildly at my breath in his ear and looks at me quizzically, so I nod emphatically. “Mum has some really seventies ideas about bosses exploiting the proletariat.” I catch his eye and smile. “Seriously, she’s one donkey jacket short of a protest march most of the time. Now come and meet her.”
