WHAT are the most annoying words in the English language? How about those sentences that start off: “Since it’s your day off today….”

It’s amazing how vexing it can be to see your Significant Other still tucked up in bed with a cup of tea that you have made, watching smugly as you wind ten layers of clothing around yourself in readiness to scrape the ice off the windshield and drive gingerly into work.

In the face of such provocation, there is no more effective revenge than to draw up a to-do list to clutter up their precious free time.

The collecting of cat food, the dropping off of dry-cleaning and the posting of bills or birthday cards are not really onerous impositions, but it’s amazing how irritating they can seem when all you had in mind was a long lie-down on the sofa followed by a spot of internet shopping.

I could tell I’d hit the spot when I saw the Other Half struggling to suppress a scowl at the mention of those ‘day off’ words. But much worse was to come when I suggested to him that he could put a chicken into the oven to get our dinner under way.

I wasn’t asking him to make the meal, I hasten to add. Just to put the bird in to cook. The result? A flinch of blind panic.

“Can you leave me some written instructions?” he asked. “And can you leave something out for me to see, otherwise I’ll forget?”

It’s understandable, I suppose. During the time we’ve been together he hasn’t really been able to do much inside the kitchen, not because he’s not up to it, but because I won’t let him.

I should be ashamed of myself. I’ve spent decades complaining about gender stereotypes (at school, I tried to do woodwork instead of cookery, not because I fancied making footstools, but because I couldn’t stand the assumption that I wouldn’t).

To this day, I maintain my feminist stance on issues such as cleaning and tidying up. Those tasks will always be in No Man’s Land at our house, and those who wish to wear shirts must master the art of ironing them for themselves.

But over the years I have had to accept that I enjoy a lot of women’s stuff, such as cooking, knitting, sewing. They are relaxing, enjoyable, satisfying. The Other Half feels the same way about gardening, which I romantically imagine I might enjoy in a River-Cottage, self-sufficient sort of a way, but which in reality I detest.

The truth is, living the good life is back-breaking, mucky work in the freezing cold and the pouring rain. Maybe I would feel different if I persevered long enough to feast on the fruits of my labours, but I’ve never managed to get to that stage yet.

So this lunchtime, after I’ve written this column, I’ll be sending an email to my Other Half, explaining exactly how to season and grease a chicken, stick bits of bacon on to it and shove it in the cooker.

And when I get home I’ll be asking him to show me how to put water in the car screenwash bottle, with detailed instructions on how much of the anti-freezing liquid should go into it (you do put that in, don’t you?).

I don’t suppose either of us will really take in the instructions, though.

We both know our place.