The bollocking door wouldn't open. That was it, Debs decided: she'd had enough bollocks for one day. Work, her iPhone, Rasha - oh God, Rasha - and now the bollocking door. This was the last bollock. 

She gave in to gin, disappointment, wine, exhaustion and gin, collapsing gracelessly against the front door. She tried very hard to stop herself thinking the word “bollocks”, which of course didn't help. Stars twinkled innocently overhead.