My wife has always been one of the most sensible people I know. She did everything by the book - she was the perfect daughter and model student. She never even went through a sullen teenage period.

In fact, the only aberrant thing she has done in the 20 years I've known her, was to foolishly agree to marry me.

Oh well, we're all allowed to make the occasional mistake.

It's not that I'm a bad person. It's just that she says it sometimes gets very hard to deal with someone who has both feet firmly planted in the air.

But then, I've always fancied becoming an astronaut.

Of course, she has come up with a really weird way of dealing with all of the stress she's recently been experiencing at work.

I don't know where she dreamed up this silly idea, but she's decided that the most responsible thing she can do, is to go and work out in a fitness centre.

This seems a tad ridiculous to me, because when you are under a lot of stress your body's fight-or-flight mechanism kicks in.

This causes the oxygenated blood to be diverted away from your head and brain, and pumped into your torso and muscles instead.

So what does my wife do? She feels a little stressful and so she goes and spends an hour grunting and making silly grimaces with her face in a room filled with other people who also look like they've just had the oxygenated blood diverted away from their brains.

I certainly know that if I had to wear one of those tight pairs of shorts and parade around in front of the regular, muscle-bound gorillas who seem to live in fitness centres, I'm sure I'd begin to feel even more stressed out.

I'd be continually feeling as if I had to keep my pudgy gut sucked in. I'd be doing my best to appear cool and calm, despite the obvious fact that my clothes would be drenched in sweat.

And I would do everything I could to pretend that I really enjoyed running myself ragged on the treadmill - engaging in a pointless activity that should only be reserved for truly important events such as catching the bus, or being the first to touch the front door on the way home from school.

I guess I must take after my father. When I was a teenager I once asked him if he ever thought about getting in shape. He admitted that he occasionally felt tempted to exercise. Though whenever this feeling arose, he would force himself to sit in a darkened room, drink a glass of Scotch, and wait for it to pass.

Now being a househusband, things can definitely get pretty stressful in my life.

The shrieks and wails, the grinding of teeth, the inevitable downpour of tears that come whenever I've realised that I've missed the Jerry Springer Show.

So I've come up with my own stress-busting solution. I know that it might sound a little harsh, but I've finally decided to start drinking wine.

I did this in part as a show of solidarity for my wife when a good friend of ours moved away and she lamented the fact that she no longer had someone to share a bottle with.

I know that you're probably thinking what an incredible bloke I must be to make such a huge sacrifice.

Forcing myself to enjoy the taste of rancid grape juice, just to keep my wife happy.

I'll probably start drinking Scotch next (to show my support for those beleaguered souls north of the border), followed by Vodka (in aid of Russia's fledgling democracy), and then Tequila (to honour the Mexican Zapatistas).

Now that's what I call reducing stress in a socially responsible way.

Who says I have my head in the clouds?