He roars with laughter. "That's great!"

"What's so funny?" his wife wanders across the yard, wine glass in hand, smile on face.

"Tell her the joke, Laura."

Twice in a row? Oh, why not? It's one of my favourites, and it seems he won't mind the repeat, so I launch into it again.

A Scotsman is being annoyed by an American tourist. The fellow is titillated by the tales and rumours he's heard about kilts and their contents, and keeps badgering the Scot, oblivious to the fellow's attempts to preserve some dignity.

"So, is it true? Huh, is it??"

Silence.

"Oh, come on, now. What do you wear under your kilt?"

The Scot fixes him with a steely glare, and through tight, thin lips, spits out his answer. "Yer wife's lipstick."

"Isn't that great, honey? 'Yer wife's lipstick!'" Husband falls about laughing all over again. Wife purses her lips, gives a tight smile, turns away. Yes, well.

"Come and see the garden," she directs us. Obvious change of topic. "I've been doing a lot of work in it lately." She points to a small shrub with blue-ish foliage. "See my bush?"

Husband and I make brief eye contact, and break out into simultaneous coughing fits. With another wee smile, this one a bit puzzled, wife moves on to greet other, more comfortable, partiers.

Later, chatting with Matthew as we prepare for bed, he muses on my tale. "Some men love a woman with a it of bawdiness in her; others are scared to death of her." He gives me an affectionate squeeze. "I'm one of the former."

"He is too, no doubt about it."

We look at each other. "So what is he doing with her?"