Living with the in-laws

Someone of very little faith gave me three days - thanks grandma.

In fact, barring an outbreak of hostilities over tea tonight, I can report with some satisfaction that in the seven weeks, three days, five hours, two minutes and 20 seconds since we bedded down in their spare room we have yet to cross swords.

Not that I'm counting the days.

As mentioned in a previous column, Paul and Sue have generously agreed to take us in while we wait to move into our new home.

Living with the in-laws is one of the most convenient, but emotionally-challenging ways to avoid getting stuck in a dreaded house chain. The stress of securing a buyer for our two-bedroom terrace was bad enough, without worrying about whether its chosen replacement would fall through.

Against this background, I really can't thank our hosts enough.

That said, it can be a potential minefield, particularly if relations with your father-in-law have been somewhat lukewarm since he escorted his precious daughter down the aisle.

"Absolutely freezing" would be a fairer description of my association with Paul on occasions.

There has been a history of conflict between us since the days he led the youth club I attended at our local church. He kicked me out countless times for a range of offences, including assault with an offensive weapon (a table tennis bat).

During my wedding speech, I perhaps unfairly described Paul as a "simple man of the soil" because of his manual endeavours on the allotment and an almost total rejection of the creative arts.

This harsh assessment was in response to a blistering attack on my good character in his speech.

He had recalled saying to a fellow youth club leader, that he "pitied the poor devil" who married me.

"How was I to know," Paul went on, milking the moment, "that that poor devil would actually be my beautiful daughter!"

Since moving in with my father-in-law our banter has intensified, like two stags locking horns.

It is not possible for Paul to be wrong.

He is the living embodiment of that infuriating Harry Enfield character with the catchphrase, "You don't want to do it like that".

I finish the washing up and he tells me I've "missed a bit"; I make a brew with tea bags and he says I should have used the leaves; I buy him a bulging Sunday paper and he insists there's "nothing in it".

He prefers to disappear into the loft, which is out of bounds to me, where he says he's working on a "secret project".

Those of us who don't believe Terry Wogan is king, the Swinging Sixties was the only era for music and being arm deep in soil is fun, Paul dismisses as "silly herberts".

In surprising contrast, there have been no such issues with my mother-in-law - for generations the scourge of married men (mother-in-laws in general, not just mine).

Sue has cooked, cleaned, ironed, pressed, washed, shopped, encouraged and complimented her way into my affections. As I explained to my wife, to deathly looks, she sets the standard for how to treat a male.

Sue's enthusiasm for domestic duties has only one drawback - I can never find anything.

I take my shoes off and they are cleared away in seconds; I search for my towel after showering and it's already hanging on the line; I put down my book and it's as good as on the shelf at the Oxfam shop.

Anyone considering moving in with their in-laws should learn from my mistakes. Never forget where you are and don't walk into the kitchen wearing only your stripy underpants.

Furthermore, always check what's on TV before joining them in the front room.

It was an excruciating few minutes the other night when I found myself trapped on the sofa between Paul and Sue during a steamy lovemaking scene on some cheesy mini-series.

My attempts to break the ice with, "Was that like your wedding night?", failed to raise a smile.

On the whole, though, the last seven weeks have been really positive.

Don't spoil it Paul...

Next week - the alternative view. The column comes courtesy of the in-laws.