The miner packed the golden lamp into his haversack, fed the mule, and left the mine. He was two tonnes short of his daily call for coal, but didn't care. He'd found a golden lamp, and even though it wasn't a magical, genie holding lamp that could grant his wishes, the missus might take a fancy to it, maybe even enough to get him a quick handjob.
He entered his run down flat, and stripped off his muddy clothes. Laying the haversack on a chair, he picked up a piece of rag and wiped the worst of the mud from his face and hands. From a pile of rags in the corner, the miner chose a slightly less nasty union suit and donned it. Then he walked barefoot into his room.
His wife didn't greet him as he entered. She'd long since stopped recognizing him at all, except on paydays, and even then, only long enough to pry a couple of shillings from his gnarled hands. Then she was out the door, off for a pint or two and, no doubt, a quick bump of the uglies with Horace, the bar tender at the flop house.
He held up the haveresack and said to his wife, "Guess what I found in the mine today?"
"A fucking diamond ring for my finger is my guess," his less than enthusiastic wife replied.
"No, I found a golden lamp. A genie's lamp. Care to see?"
His wife looked up from the stocking she was mending. "Well, then, let's have a look."
He opened the haversack and withdrew the muddy lamp.
"That's not gold you dick. That's tin," his wife sid.
The miner sighed. He rubbed more of the mud from the lamp while saying under his breath, "And you're no wife you flipping harpie. I wish you would turn into a pile of shit."
And she did. She surely did.