MY WIFE'S been very, very quiet just lately.
What bliss, lucky man, you might think. But, no, I know her better than that.
At first I thought she might be nursing a monster hangover from all the Christmas festivities. The number of times I had to pick her up off the lawn.
Then I thought she might still be put out by the fact that I crawled in at 4am the other day.
It was far worse than that. She was plotting and scheming. With all the festive frolics over and done with, and the bleak skies overhead, she had time on her hands and hope in her heart.
She was planning this year's calendar. What an organised lady, you might assume. But like they say in the Marks & Spencer adverts, this is no ordinary calendar. It's the events diary from hell.
Nothing nice like holidays, barbecues and weddings in this list.
No, it's the work schedule for me over the next few months. All the things we - that means me - have to do round the house and garden.
We - that means me - can decorate the bedrooms; we need that wall sorting out with insulation; the lounge needs a new carpet and curtains, but it will have to be decorated first.
What about a new light fitting in the kitchen? Sorry, luv, new legislations says it can only be done by a qualified electrician. You have to be certified and I'm not. Phew!
But that's when she dropped her real bombshell. It hit home harder than the list of jobs.
She's thinking of getting a man in to do the things for her that I can't. No wonder she had a quiet smile on her face.
My wonderful woman has decided that we need help in the garden. It's only half an acre of mature garden, and she has managed it perfectly well up to now if she can be bothered to stay out there until midnight most days. But now she wants help. She knows how to throw a mean and painful punch in the wallet. I'm old fashioned. We - that means she - have always managed to run our stately home without the help of a butler, a cleaner or gardener and we don't send our clothes out to an ironing service.
Even though Mrs H does an 11-hours-a-day office job and earns more than me (are you paying attention, boss?) she always has time for the household chores, for a quick machete session in our jungle and to keep me plied with alcohol when I arrive home exhausted.
"So what's brought this on?" I asked with a note of desperation. Then she came out with the most pathetic excuse of all: "Everybody else we know has some help around the house."
So-and-so has a cleaner and an ironing service; Fred and Doris send their grass out to be mowed; Jim and Maureen have someone to run their bath and check the temperature.
That's the trouble with rubbing shoulders with the rich and lazy. It can turn the heads of impressionable people like my wife.
We are going to have to find new friends or persuade the ones we've got that they do not talk about all the labour-saving humans they employ. Please stop unsettling my dear wife, she's getting ideas above her station.
I've offered to help by kick starting the lawn mower for her. I said I'd get clean water while she's cleaning the windows. I'll even stir the paint when she's decorating.
No need to go all extreme and actually have to pay someone to do jobs around the house. We'll manage.
And as I am such a loving, kind, warmhearted, considerate husband, if things are getting too much for her, all she has to do is phone me and I'll come home from the pub and talk to her while she's in the kitchen rattling those pots and pans.
Finally, may I wish both my readers a Happy New Year? I wish for you everything you would wish on me in 2007.
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