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Relationship advice: How NOT to have an argument

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Everybody thinks they know how to argue. And then they move in with somebody and find out that they don’t.

I thought he and I were different. We don’t like confrontation, I thought, so we’ll just sort everything out like reasonable human beings, forgetting that I am not a reasonable human being.

And although it’s true that we don’t like confrontation (who does?), I do like a clean house, a tidy bedroom and to live with a human being who realises that if you’re not in a room, you should TURN THE FLAMING LIGHT OFF. He, on the other hand, likes the precise opposite, so we had no choice but to exchange just a few cross words to ensure we’d both survive cohabitation.

And I know now that I did it all wrong. Although we survived the process, sometimes I wonder how. So to save everybody else the trouble, I thought I’d share what I learnt: here’s how not to have an argument. Let this be a lesson to you.

Lots and lots and lots of sighing

Next time I update the ‘Other interests’ section of my CV, I’m going to add ‘passive aggression’. My first tactic for addressing my frustration when I found that he had failed to change a toilet roll/not emptied the bin/left yet another pair of boxer shorts on the bathroom floor (is it intended as a gift? You know, like when a cat brings you a dead mouse or something?) was to sigh over and over again in the hope that the increase in condensation in the flat would alert him to his errors. It didn’t work.

When asked what’s wrong, say “Nothing”

When the sighing got so excessive that I was at risk of hyperventilating, he would give in and ask what was wrong. And instead of just explaining “Your inability to grate cheese on the kitchen worktops without it look like a bale of hay has just exploded in the house,” I just said ‘Nothing’ and assumed that he would know that what I really meant was LOADS. Yeah, that didn’t work either.

Start talking to yourself

This is probably the most absurd stage in the passive aggression journey. At the end of my ridiculous tether after he’d refused to decipher the precise meaning of my sighs and clearly coded ‘Nothing’, I resolved to just start talking to myself in the hope that he would finally catch on. It’s very easy, all you do is stomp about whilst tidying the house muttering the following under your breath:

“Well hello there pair of pants, how very nice of you to come and sit right there in the middle of the bathroom floor! I guess I’ll just pick you up myself, shall I? Hmmm?!” 

or, for the ultimate in being a complete twerp, start thanking yourself:

“Oh thank you, Charlotte! How kind of you to clean up all my sh*t! Yes you do have MUPPET tattooed on your forehead and may I say how well it goes with your eyes. Your big muppet eyes.” 


He didn’t bite. He just sat and watched, baffled as to why he had ever agreed to move in with such a complete lunatic.

When forced to explain what is the matter, completely lose your sh*t and all perspective about what you were originally cross about

Eventually after one to two hours of the aforementioned arsing about, he would finally ask me to just say what the matter was. And I’d have wound myself up SO much by that point that I would just start blurting out expletives whilst pointing at the fridge or the bin like a mad person. I’d be apoplectic with rage and yet I wouldn’t really be sure why. His original crime – for example, eating all of the chocolate orange my grandma had bought for me, or talking during Coronation Street – had escalated to such an extent that I’d lost all ability to articulate myself. We’d both just have to retire to different rooms for a bit whilst I gathered myself, and he played X-Box until I was ready to start behaving like a normal human. What a bloody palaver.

BUT HERE’S WHAT I SHOULD HAVE DONE

Just calmly mentioned that something was bothering me, explained why and, as is the rule for everything in life, tried not to behave like a total dick. Who knew?

Well, now you do and thankfully so do I. Otherwise there’s no way we’d have made it this far. If only somebody had told me all this before we’d moved in together, I’d have spent a lot less time being severely out of breath.

Oh well. *sighs*

How to relax: 4 easy ways to chill the hell out

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IMG_20140824_135027-1024x1024 This weekend I have learnt a new skill: relaxing.

With so many screens to look at and people to see and stuff that constantly needs cleaning, how’s a person supposed to get a minute to themselves in 2014? Well, it turns out that it is possible; you just have to be disciplined. Here’s a four step guide to chilling the hell out:

1. Do one thing at a time
I have always been terrible at this. I can’t even walk down the stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen without treating it like it’s the last time I will ever make the journey. Heaven forbid I should descend without every used glass, load of washing and handbag in my hands in case I never get the opportunity again. Of course I could make a second trip but that would use up my essential letter opening/fridge reorganising/catching up with Coronation Street time – these tasks won’t do themselves, you know! Well, no, but doing one at a time will reduce the chances of tumbling down the stairs and landing on the floor with the entire contents of my bedroom on my head. And doing just one thing at a time is much more enjoyable. Fancy reading a book? Then just do that – don’t read it whilst simultaneously loading the dishwasher, changing the bed and alphebetising your CD collection. Want to spend time on ASOS selecting clothes you don’t need? Do it. But not with 35 other pages open that’ll distract you from the task at hand. (Particularly any online banking sites – your statement can really kill the mood).

2. Don’t feel guilty 
The way to do this is to a) realise that whatever else you think you should be doing whilst you’re reading a book/watching a film/purchasing yet another leopard print dress will still be waiting for you when you’re finished and b) enjoy yourself so much that you stop caring about it altogether. I sat and watched Annie Hall last night even though my brain was telling me that I should really be hanging the washing on the line and putting the dishes I used to make my very healthy pasta, sauce and loads-of-cheese dinner in the dishwasher. In the end I didn’t do any of it until the morning (admittedly partly because I fell into a cheese-induced coma on the sofa). Well, la-di-da.

3. Put your phone down 
Managing to get 1 and 2 nailed will feel like a major achievement and what do we do when we achieve something these days? We put it on social media. But in this instance we must refrain. If you’re waiting to see how many of your chums ‘like’ the fact that you’re kicking back with a novel and a tube of Pringles, how are you going to concentrate on the plot? And what if they don’t like it? Or you see that everybody on there is actually out drinking mojitos and dancing to (ENTER NAME OF POPULAR MUSIC I HAVEN’T HEARD OF) and you just end up feeling bad about yourself? That won’t be very relaxing, will it? Now I come to think of it, point 3 should really just be ‘Delete Facebook’ and I’m sure we’d all feel a lot better.

4. Don’t wait until you start crying to admit that you need to chill the hell out
Here’s a useful fact to remember: you don’t have to be on holiday to relax. Unfortunately I only realised this when I became so overwhelmed by my self-imposed 10-item domestic task list that I cried. My husband put me on a chair in the garden with a book and a glass of water and told me not to come back in until I had finished both. It shouldn’t have to come to this (also the book was The Fault In Our Stars. If you’ve read it, you’ll know that it only made me cry more but it’s the thought that counts) – it’s important to notice that you need to relax before you become a blubbering wreck.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my own advice, turn off my computer and pop on another film. Chomping through a Fruit and Nut whilst I do so does technically class as multitasking but I think we can all agree to let this one slide.

Relationships: The benefits of time apart

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102They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. And they’re right.

It also makes the eyes stop staring at the unwashed dishes, the mouth stop mentioning that the bin still hasn’t gone out, and the fingers stop pointing at that pile of clothes on the floor that ‘isn’t going to move itself!’ A little bit of time away from your other half will do wonders for your sense of perspective.

When you get married, you vow to be together forever. To share the good times, the bad times, and all the other times in between that are just sort of alright.

But nobody said you had to spend every waking moment together – in fact they’d be wise to make you promise not to.

In my experience, time apart is one of the many secrets to a happy relationship. There’s that, Netflix, home grocery delivery and an agreement that it’s OK for two people to feel differently about Match of the Day. If only they incorporated these things into the curriculum we’d all be a lot better off.

And, of course, I don’t mean long periods of time – assuming you actually like him or her that would most likely cause discomfort – but just the odd bit here and there. A weekend away with friends, a night at your mum’s, a day-long hen do/stag do/general drinking bender after which it’s best there’s nobody there when you get home to see just how green you can go – whichever way you do it, a bit of separation will do you both the world of good. And here’s why:

1. It gives you the chance to miss each other 
Before you live with your other half, you spend a lot of time missing them; waiting eagerly for the next day or night that you’ll spend together, counting down the hours ’til date number 19, or considering whether the time has finally come for you to mention that you were lying when you said you liked football. But once you’ve moved in, that feeling goes away. Sure, you might miss them when they’re at work or when you’re on the tube and thinking how much you’d prefer it if it was their butt that was three inches from your eye but, all being well, you’ll be back together in time for Eastenders. So incorporating a little time apart brings a touch of that feeling back – a little bit of longing to remind you that it’s still them that you want by your side – and most definitely not the round-reared stranger with no appreciation for personal space.

2. There’s nothing like a bit of perspective
No matter how much you adore one another, it’s still hard not to get caught up in the little things – the bathroom light he relentless fails to switch off, the pile of Busted and McFly CDs you refuse to throw away, and the two rolls of wallpaper you are collectively too lazy to put up. And if you never leave each other’s side, there’s a chance those things may start to grind you down – you’ll look at him and see an electricity bill and he’ll look at you and see nothing but your incredible taste in music. A little time apart can help give you your perspective back; some space to remember there’s more to this guy than his apparent ignorance to the rising cost of power, that there’s a reason you bought those headphones and that, lights on or lights off, there’s nobody you’d rather not put up wallpaper with.

3. You might get a text message that isn’t about food!
Correspondence, like all things, changes the longer you’re in a relationship. By the time you’re married text messages are mainly used to say things like “What do you want for tea?” and “Can you remember if we’ve got any peas in the freezer?” rather than “I can’t wait to see you” or “Your hair’s nice” (or whatever people say when they’re dating). But if you’re away for the night, it’s a chance to drop the domesticity and type out some words of love and affection. You can get back to thinking about the frozen veg situation tomorrow.

But of course, while there are lots of reasons to go away, thankfully there are many, many more to come home. You’ve just bought yourself a little time to remember what they all are.

You’ll arrive back fresh-faced, eager to see one another, and full of anecdotes from your time spent with other human beings.

And, if you’re lucky – if only for a little while – you’ll have forgotten all about that bin.

16 things I wish I could put on my Christmas list

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15 things I wish I could put on my Christmas list 21. Pyjamas with built-in Tasers to stun me out of bed in the morning.

2. 200 toilet rolls. The dullest gift ever, perhaps, but not having to buy any for a year or so would be swell.

3. A flesh-coloured umbrella so I can sew the DAMN THING to my skin if that’s what it takes to stop me losing it.

4. As above for my gloves, phone, house keys and Tesco Clubcard.

5. A smartphone that stays charged for more than ten minutes.

6. Every single birthday, Christmas and congratulations for getting a job/car/wife card I need to send next year; written, addressed and stamped, and with alarms set in my phone to remind me when to post them.

7. A mascara that beeps when it disappears under the bed, into my underwear drawer, down the toilet or wherever the hell it goes every morning when I’m trying to make myself look presentable.

8. A device that will tell me all the ingredients I’ve already got at home when I’m in the supermarket and losing the will to live.

9. A television that looks different to each viewer, for example, my husband would see FIFA 14 and The Walking Dead, whilst I would see Coronation Street and Boyzone at 20. (You might think it would be simpler to just get a second television but we live in a one-bedroom London flat and there is not room; the TV we have already doubles up as a dining table.)

10. 365 Cadbury’s Boosts. That should see me through at least half of 2014.

11. Eyebrows that don’t require 24-hour care. Or otherwise enchanted tweezers that can sort them out when I’m asleep and give me my life back.

12. The Dawson’s Creek box set. Nobody is going to buy me that.

13. A robotic laundry basket that will walk downstairs, empty itself into the washing machine and identify the appropriate setting of its own accord. (If it would also come back to empty the machine and pop everything on the rack too that would be ace but I realise that’s a big ask.)

14. Tights so thick it’s like wearing three pairs at once. The combined squeeze of three waistbands is rather uncomfortable.

15. A year’s worth of internet-ready, ROFL-worthy blog posts so I can go back to spending Sunday afternoons like I used to – either eating, shopping or repeatedly avoiding doing the gardening.

16. Perspective.

Merry Christmas readers!

The real reason women love spas

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Four reasons why women love spas 3I used to be cynical about spas.

What’s the point of paying to sweat your face off or to sit in a pool of bubbles, I thought – I have a bath at home, if I fill it with hot water and flap my arms I can create the same effect without even having to leave the house.

But then I actually went to a spa. And I realised why women really enjoy going to them so much:

1. You spend the whole weekend wearing a dressing gown
If we had it our way, this is how we would spend every weekend (and every other day for that matter, if only we could find a job that would allow it. Is pyjama testing a profession?) But thanks to responsibilities and draughts, this is not possible. But on spa weekends, you are deemed overdressed if you wear anything more than a gown. You can eat your lunch in it, paint your nails in it, and as the women at our spa who were less concerned about the detox side of the experience demonstrated, you can nip outside for a fag in one too.

2. Nobody gives a damn what you look like
Spas are not about looking good, they are about sweating and chatting and sitting the hell down. And you don’t do that wearing a full face of make-up and perfectly quaffed hair, but with a bright red face, soaking wet knotted locks, and an expression so vague that anybody coming in from the outside would think you’d been shot with a tranquiliser gun. And nobody cares. They’re just glad to have a whole day off having to use a comb.

3. Spas are warm
As I have said before, women do not like being cold. In fact, if I was asked to list my favourite things in the world, being warm would be at the top (in joint first place with Marks and Spencer marshmallows, Texas BBQ Pringles, and, I suppose, my family and friends yadayadayada.)

And at a spa the rooms are specifically designed to keep you warm – if you’re not in a Jacuzzi, you’re in a room full of hot steam, or in a sauna so humid you can’t breathe through your nose. There’s no need to put a vest top under your swimming costume or wear two pairs of tights at once in a spa, oh no; the only gusts you’ll be feeling are from the hairdryer when you attempt to put your hair back together after a weekend of humidity. To be honest, it might be best to just shave it all off and start again.

4. You have to do nothing because you’ve paid to do nothing
You know you’re an adult when you use phrases like “We can’t let the day slip away from us!” and “I’ve got a whole hour to myself, I think I’ll clear out the fridge and rearrange my underwear drawer.” The only way to get us to stop and do nothing for a weekend is to take away all our other options. And it’s only when we’ve laid down some hard cash and shut our smartphones in a locker that we feel free to enjoy our temporary freedom. Even though we could technically do absolutely jack all in our own homes every weekend if we wanted to, the draw of that To Do list – top item ‘Buy stronger bin bags’ – is just too much to resist.

So consider me an official convert. If I had more cash I’d be down the spa every weekend, drinking my suggested daily intake of water and not washing my hair.

But, in the absence of a windfall, the best I can do is run a bath, put on a face mask, and try not to be distracted by the drying rack that’s begging to be cleared.

To be honest, it’s not quite the same.

15 post wedding resolutions I have already broken

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15 post-wedding resolutions I have already broken

1. Don’t use the fact that I wrote every single one of our wedding gift thank you cards against him.

2. When he says he’ll fill the dishwasher, let him. Don’t just do it myself because I don’t believe he’ll load it correctly.

3. Refrain from mentioning that all I can think about is getting home and putting on my pyjamas whilst out on date nights.

4. No longer bring up his domestic failings late at night when he is trying to go to sleep.

5. Stop mentioning that he lost my phone charger. And that sharing one between us is annoying. And that the fact that I could easily just stop being a baby and go out and buy a new one is NOT. THE. POINT.

6. Stay awake until at least 10.30pm on a Saturday evening.

7. No longer use sighing as a method of communication.

8. Don’t be offended because he’d rather play FIFA 14 than look through the wedding photographs.

9. Don’t threaten annulment just because he refuses to listen to Magic FM during dinner.

10. Spend evenings having conversations instead of just watching Mock The Week and Have I Got News For You reruns and falling asleep.

11. Avoid using sarcasm to express annoyance that the laundry basket is overflowing e.g. “You know what I love? Having a pile of laundry that is exactly the same height as me. It’s like living with ART.”

12. At least pretend to be open to the idea of leaving the house on a Sunday.

 13. Don’t use my new status as his wife as an excuse to bin all his boxer shorts that I don’t like.

14. Or let a blog post be the way that he finds out that I’ve done it.

15. Be a nicer person.

Network-it: Why leaving the house can be a good thing

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IMG_5238Before you know it, you’re an adult. There are a few ways of knowing this has happened to you:

– You need a job to pay for heating, carpets and food you want to consume;

– You’re allowed to go out in the evening without asking your mum for permission;

– You enjoy wildlife documentaries.

And all of a sudden, all the free time you used to wish away when you were a child has disappeared. The hours get used up by commuting and cooking and trying to pluck some sense into our eyebrows before you’ve even had a chance to think about what you might like to do with your life.

In the interests of having a little time each week to call my own, and that was protected from the lure of mopping the floor or attempting to match my freshly washed socks together, I started writing this blog.

It began because I missed writing (I was a newspaper reporter back in the day) and because I thought perhaps there were some laughs to be gained from making observations about extremely mundane things. I’ll leave you to decide if that’s true.

And many blog posts later, I’m still here, sat in my lounge of a Sunday evening with a Percy Pig egg-timer ticking away next to me, telling me I’ve got an hour to get this written before the butternut squash I’m attempting to roast for dinner will be done. I am either a model of multitasking or an idiot who really should have started writing earlier, depending on your view.

And every now and then it’s nice to meet other people who like to do the same thing. If nothing else it helps one feel a little less mad for spending part of the weekend writing words about handbag contents or people leaving the lights on. So this weekend I did a bit of ‘networking’ – a word that used to leave me cold until I realised it just means chatting – to find other people who know about this writing and blogging game, and to learn how to do it better.

On Friday I took part in a Q&A with Stylist magazine’s columnist Lucy Mangan after entering a competition to be one of ten people invited along. Besides being excited to be in the company of a publication and writer I admire, I was also just delighted to have actually won something. The last thing I won was a set of multi-coloured ring binders from WH Smith when I was 13. To this day that remains one of the proudest moments of my life.

And then on Saturday I ventured out to that Internet powerhouse Mumsnet for its second annual Blogfest – a whole day dedicated to celebrating women’s voices and to learning how to use them to best effect.

And I loved both occasions because, aside from teaching me lots of things, they also gave me a chance to face my fears; of speaking to strangers without any of them telling me to bugger off, of daring to call myself a writer, and of asking some famous and talented people for advice on how to do more of it. My palms were both cold and moist throughout.

But I left each event feeling what those of us who use phrases that went out of fashion five years ago would call pumped – both full of ideas and of pride at having done some learning when I could just have stayed home eating Pringles. (And at having the perfect excuse to go home and eat a whole tube to celebrate).

I will definitely be doing more of this; it’s amazing what you can fit in if you really want to. I can handle wearing mismatching socks for another week.

Right, now let’s make that dinner.

Marriage: Six things they don’t tell you before you sign up

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IMG_51891. You won’t know what your own name is. 
Changing my surname means that I now have to think each time I’m asked my name, which makes me look like a moron. I’m trying to just use Charlotte wherever possible to avoid embarrassment. My long term plan is to join Cher, Prince, Seal and Shakira in just having the one name. And what a perfect excuse to release that album I’ve been working on all these years.

2. The honeymoon period ends as soon as you get back from your honeymoon.
Oh sure, it’s all hearts, flowers and mojitos at 11am when you’re away, but it doesn’t take long for domesticity to kick back in when you get home. You’ll have said “We really need to buy drain cleaner,” and “It would be great if you could remember to change the toilet roll when you’ve finished it,” before you’ve even finished unpacking.

3. You’ll worry that, unless you have a baby, nobody will ever pay you attention again.
If the number of people who have already asked me when we’re going to have one is anything to go by, we won’t be worthy of so much as a raised eyebrow again unless we manage to drum up a baby from somewhere. This is, of course, ridiculous. And, actually, a little time out of the limelight won’t do my nerves, bank balance, or (in certain shops if I breathe in absolutely loads and swap the labels) size 8 waist any harm.

4. Marriage vocabulary is ageing.
If you want to make a 28 year old woman feel 50 years older, just add Mrs to the beginning of her name. Then remind her that she’s someone’s wife. And that she has a husband. And that she should really therefore write a will. Oh no, they don’t make an Olay strong enough for that one. Of course, being Mrs to somebody’s Mr is a joy but, until now, the only people I’ve known with that title are my mum, grandma and teachers – all serious, older people, with responsibilities and cheque books. Not idiots with Netbooks and a love of hashtags. #twitterkeepsmeyoung

5. All previous anniversaries are void.
I was gutted to discover that having a ‘wedding anniversary’ means that all other significant dates are now going to go unnoticed. The day we met, that we started dating, that I realised we both love chocolate buttons and were therefore destined to be together forever… they all used to be the perfect excuse for a greetings card or a day without the X-Box being switched on, but Marriage Day trumps them all, apparently. I’m just going to buy presents for myself each time instead.

6. You’ll need a new project to keep you occupied.
In the absence of a wedding to plan, you’ll need something else to get your teeth into. And no matter what you choose, it will be significantly less glamorous that arranging a giant party. We’re currently swinging between binning all our clothes, rearranging our CD collection and working out how many more credit cards we’d need to apply for to pay for a new bathroom. Honestly, it is non-stop around here.


Anything else the wedding magazines forgot to mention that you only discovered when you’d signed the papers? Leave a comment and let me know. 

Tiredness: Why I never make it through a whole film

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20140720_1248427am: Get up. Go downstairs. Turn off dishwasher, bathroom light and X-box that Leon left on last night. Throw yesterday evening’s chocolate crumbs in bin.

7.10am: Shower. Exfoliate anything and everything with vigour. Wash hair. Spend 10 minutes with each ear under shower to rinse out conditioner.

7.20am: Apply body lotion, facial wash, moisturiser, SPF, eye cream and mound of mascara. Rub at bits of mascara that escape in brow, eyelid and, inexplicably, forehead. Roll on deodorant and flap arms. Open wardrobe and stair into abyss.

7.30am: Sigh. Put on clothing selection. Look in mirror. Sigh again. Head downstairs.

7.35am: Make breakfast whilst also making lunch, emptying dishwasher and taking out recycling. Ignore what number of Pringles packets says about diet.

7.45am: Clean teeth whilst making bed.

7.48am: Wipe dripped toothpaste off duvet/clothes/carpet/fiancé.

7.49am: Gurgle with Listerine. Consider putting in eyes to make self feel more awake. Decide against.

7.50am: Apply make-up at speed. Hope ‘slapped’ look will die down. Do needless tidying that could definitely wait ’til later. Look at time. Gasp. Grab handbag.

8am: Run downstairs. Unplug iron, regardless of whether Leon has finished using it. Remind him for the 900th time to shut bathroom window and lock front door. Wish him a pleasant day and leave the house.

8.05am: Leg it to tube station. Curse self that what could be a nice leisurely walk always turns into panicked sweaty half run.

8.20am: Take deep breath, tense muscles and get on tube. Open newspaper. Pretend to be invisible.

8.50am: Push through carriage full of angry people. Get off tube. Tweet most irritating occurrence.

9am – 5.30pm: WORK.

Whilst working also think: What shall we have for dinner? Did I leave my straighteners on? Are there enough tops in the laundry to justify a colours wash? Whose birthday is it next? When was the last time we changed our electric toothbrush heads? Will he have remembered to shut the bathroom window? 

5.30pm: Travel home. Work out if have enough food in fridge to avoid going to supermarket.

6.15pm: Arrive at supermarket. Resist temptation to punch self-service screen and shout “I’LL GIVE YOU AN UNEXPECTED ITEM IN YOUR BAGGING AREA IF YOU DON’T PLAY BALL!”

 6.45pm: Get home. Remember immediately who left house last at sight of erect ironing board and shadow of the GODDAMN bathroom light.

6.50pm: Go upstairs. Change into comfortable ‘house clothes’. Look in mirror and promise to throw said ‘house trousers’ (old old old jogging trousers that have never experienced jogging – unless running to the sweets cupboard in the X-Factor advert break counts) away very soon.

7pm: Ring Leon’s mobile. Get no answer. Ring work mobile. Get no answer. Ring work landline. Get no answer. Assume he’s gone to gym/is listening to iPod/enjoying half an hour’s peace before returning to alleged domestic bliss.

7.05pm: Eat bowl of crisps.

7.08pm: Regret eating bowl of crisps.

7.10pm: Start cooking. Whilst cooking, put on load of washing, hang up clothes still in machine from last night, wipe table, open post, arrange post into ‘for shredding’, ‘for filing’ and ‘for some joker who hasn’t lived here for years but just can’t be arsed to change their address’, and shake out toaster.

7.30pm: Put Coronation Street on. Or if it’s not Monday, Wednesday or Friday put Eastenders on and wish that it was.

 7.45pm: Grate cheese. (I don’t know what I’m cooking in this scenario but it’s fair to assume cheese will be involved.)

 7.50pm: Eat large handful of cheese and have to grate more.

 8pm: Welcome Leon home from gym. Tell him not to sit anywhere or touch anything until he’s had a shower. Make witty comment about benefits of switching off electrical appliances before leaving for work, which he ignores.

8.15pm: Eat dinner. Share every detail of day, including BOGOF deal I managed to score on favourite tomato and red pepper relish.

9pm: Stand next to him as he loads dishwasher and point out what he’s doing wrong. Agree to retire to lounge when told to keep beak out. Watch secretly from sofa.

9.05pm: When joined in lounge, say with confidence I definitely can stay awake through a film if he puts one on.

9.10pm: Put sofa blanket over me and rest eyes while he chooses a DVD and turns off all lights (proving he does know where the switch is).

11.30pm: Wake up during credits.

Living together: Him and his shadow

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IMG_2485Living together has taught me a lot about the differences between men and women.

Our thoughts on where it is reasonable to leave one’s pants, why it matters that the front door is both shut AND locked before we go to bed, and uses for the fridge besides beer storage are just some of the matters we’ve had to work through in the interests of making this cohabitation a success.

But what amazes me most is the vast difference between what we each notice when it comes to the running of the house. Namely in his case nothing and in my case everything.

If the bathroom needs cleaning, the bed needs changing, the front door is wide open and a family of beavers is taking up residence – this guy is none the wiser. So thank goodness he has me to point it all out for him. (Although there is a chance he feels differently.)

Without consciously deciding to, I have become his shadow. Wherever he goes in this house, I am just a few steps behind, ready to clean up, replace or switch off whatever item he’s most recently come into contact with.

Take weekday mornings. We each have a routine to get us ready for work. The only difference, besides make-up application (me) and facial shaving (mainly just him) is that a central part of my routine involves undoing most of his.

Each day he gets up and goes downstairs to iron a shirt whilst I wait upstairs and take bets on how many lights he will decide he needs to assist him with this task. Will it be just the hall light, or the hall light and the kitchen light, or, for reasons only he knows, perhaps he may also require the lounge lamp AND the bathroom light too. Whatever figure he settles on, that will be the number of lights I need to switch off when I come down. And the iron too.

And then there’s the laundry. During Saturday morning’s scrape around the bedroom for a load to chuck in the machine, I happened upon a nice little pile of discarded socks he’s been building up at his side of the bed. I fear it would have taken Sockmageddon when a mound of cotton had almost suffocated us in our sleep before he had deemed it time to give them a spin. But thankfully I, the Bruce Willis of this tale, am here to jump in and save the day.

I could go on all day. And whilst it is fun to gently mock, who is it we should really be laughing at here? Is it he man who gets to work each day in a nice, crisply ironed shirt without stressing about how many tins of tomatoes or millimetres of cheese are left in the fridge? Or is it the girl who uses the ‘Notes’ function on her phone specifically to keep a record of such things? Don’t think I can’t hear you giggling.

It would of course be nice to have a little more help around the house, a little more noticing and household initiative and perhaps I should ask for it.

But whilst we complain, there’s nothing us anal-retentives like more than being in control so if our beloveds did start being as organised as we are, they would just get on our nerves; and much more than any left-on light ever could.

You can’t have it both ways so I’d best just put a sock in it. There’s plenty here for me to choose from.