Rachel, a good Jewish girl, and Patrick, a good Irish Catholic lad, fell madly in love. Despite family objections they married in a registry office on a beatiful springlike afternoon in early March.

They went away on their honeymoon, and checked in to the bridal suite in a romantic hotel on a desert island.

Everything was perfect, the champagne was on ice, the strawberries filled the cut glass bowl, the room was filled with delicately-scented roses and the kingsize fourposter bed was made up with silk and satin sheets.

They had saved themselves for this moment, and both were virgins (remember virgins!), although they had both researched the required activity in books and through the internet, so they knew what to do.

Rachel removed her going-away outfit in a slow, sultry and sexy way, as she had seen it done by others, until she stood there, beautiful and naked with her nipples standing out like chapel hat-pegs in the airconditioned cool of the room.

Patrick, in turn, slipped out of his Armani suit, his Turnbull and Asser shirt and his Y-fronts, and stood there before her, a proud example of Celtic manhood.

"Oh, Patrick, Patrick, make love to me now!" cried Rachel.

"Oh, Rachel, if only I could!" he moaned.

"What on earth's the matter?" she sighed.

"It's Lent!", he replied.

"To whom, for how long, and at what rate of interest?" demanded Rachel.