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What it’s NOT like to be in a relationship

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You have to ask for permission to go out alone

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Here’s a thing I don’t understand: when people assume that being married or in a long term relationship means that you have to ask for the permission of the other person to go out without them.

I hear it a lot. People asking men if they need to check with ‘the missus’ before they can commit to plans, others wondering how somebody’s husband will ‘feel’ if their wife spends a weekend without them. And too often you hear those in relationships confirming this opinion, making their wives out to be like prison guards, only letting them out for their allotted amount of fresh air, or suggesting that their husbands are so helpless when left alone that there’s a good chance they’ll panic and accidentally eat all the furniture.

In this house we’re pretty clear about what’s not allowed. The rules are:

1. Don’t sleep with anybody else; and

2. Don’t be a dick

That’s pretty much what wedding vows say, but in prettier language. (I do of course have a number of other lower level rules of my own, such as don’t wear shoes in the house, don’t leave crumbs everywhere, and don’t leave lights on in rooms you’re not in, but unfortunately these seem to be seen more as ‘loose guidelines’ than rules. It’s hard to enforce them without being a dick which, as discussed, is against the rules).

But beyond that, the world remains free. We can both go out, we can partake in conversations with other humans, and we can be so bold as to say that we have had fun, despite not having been side by side at the time. As long as everybody is safe and well when they return, and ideally not covered in mud or having purchased a pet tarantula, there’s nothing to worry about. Because, when the above mentioned rules are observed, what harm can a little apart time do?

Perhaps he’ll go the pub with a friend, drink all of the alcohols, come home and smash open a leftover Easter bunny, devour the whole thing and then come to bed having left all the downstairs lights on (and by ‘perhaps’ I mean ‘this is what happened on Thursday’). I’ll admit, it did disrupt my plans to gain a solid seven hours sleep, as well as my intention to consume said bunny myself the following day – and you can work out for yourself how I felt about the lights situation – but it made real no difference to my life or our relationship. I just had to remember to keep my voice down the next morning, and point gently in the direction of the ibuprofen.

It’s important to remember that you marry someone, you don’t hire them. You don’t get to decide what they do and between which hours. There’s certain boundaries of course (once again, see above rules) and I do recommend a joint calendar in the interests of planning your social events, but that’s quite enough. No need to clock in and clock out.

People should give themselves and each other more credit. If you’d rather stay at home than socialise then just say so – or pretend to have a migraine if you’re that embarrassed – but don’t blame your other half for your own desire to stay in with them eating Cheetos.

There is no need to play up to this ludicrous idea that women spend their days guiding their husbands around the world like puppets (How much spare time do you think we have, exactly? With Coronation Street, maintaining my eyebrows and hating total strangers for no apparent reason, I really can’t fit anything else in), and that men expect their lady friends to remain by their side at all times in case they accidentally set themselves on fire.

If that is your situation then, well, I’m very sorry to hear it and I recommend thinking about what you can do to change it, but if you’re just saying it for something to say, then don’t. You’re breaking rule number 2 and I’m sorry but that’s just not allowed.

 

Don’t look too keen: Why dating rules were made to be broken

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Dating rules can be ridiculous.

Leave at least an hour between text messages.
Don’t accidentally point at wedding dresses whilst you’re out together.
Don’t do too much smiling in case they think you’re a psychopath.

Urgh, I’m glad to be out of it.

The rule I always struggled the most with was ‘Don’t look too keen’.

Now, this is not because I’m a crazy person with a body secretly tattooed with the name of every man I’ve ever admired (I’m afraid of needles, thanks very much) but because this rule is actually unfinished. What it should say is: ‘Don’t look too keen unless you’re ABSOLUTELY 100% SURE that they are equally keen on you in which case, do what you like’.

The game goes something like this.

  • Meet someone you like.
  • Appear interested but nonchalant, like a Coronation Street viewer passing the time with an episode of Eastenders. You’re here, you’re looking, but you’ve just got so much else going on.
  • Commence dating. Brush your hair and clean your teeth but don’t let them think it was all for them. There’s a good chance you’d have done that today anyway.
  • Begin to incorporate occasional smiling and physical contact into dates. Maybe even laugh at their jokes but don’t play with your hair. It’ll totally give the game away.
  • Undertake mind reading exercises/ask a couple of their mates if they’ve mentioned you, to confirm that they definitely do like you precisely as much as you like them.
  • Say something encouraging like “You’re nice” or “Those jeans fit you well around the waist” to let them know that actually, yes, you are interested too.
  • Enter balanced, game free relationship. Reply to their text messages when you want and perhaps even answer the phone when they ring you (unless Corrie’s on, obviously).
  • Get married. State just how keen you are in front of everybody you know.
  • Schedule regular occasions on which to demonstrate your deep felt keenness throughout the year, such as anniversaries, birthdays and Pancake Day.
  • Specifically do not appear keen on anybody else at all for the rest of your life, with the following permitted exceptions: David Beckham, Leonard DiCaprio (Romeo and Juliet era preferred) and anybody offering free chocolates, as long as you make sure you get enough free samples for both of you.

It’s an exhausting business. But here’s a thing nobody tells you. That isn’t really the end of it.

If you’re somebody who has worked tirelessly for years to ensure you’re always on the right side of the keenness tracks, taking occasional breaks to kick yourself hard in the shin for accidentally misreading a high-five as a marriage proposal, your guard never quite goes down.

Dating rules were meant to be brokenI think it’s because dating teaches us to be so cautious that when we do let ourselves relax, an alarm bell rings inside our heads and says WOAH WOAH WOAH YOU’RE VULNERABLE! QUICK, DELETE HIS NUMBER AND START PRONOUNCING HIS NAME INCORRECTLY! YOU NEED TO WIN BACK SOME POWER!

It can come up out of the blue. You can be asking an innocent question about the weekend ahead and your options for mutual socialising, and all of a sudden you’re feeling the need to clarify that you were just wondering what they were up to and you don’t even want to hang out with them anyway, and you have so many other options on the table you can hardly wade through them, whilst they look on, baffled.

It can be difficult to shake the dating game off. Of course some elements apply forever – it’s nice to listen to what people have to say instead of just saying “Uhuh” every ten seconds and continuing to look at Twitter, and washing is always a positive activity, but once you’re in a relationship it’s nice just to have a bit of trust and stop all this fannying about it.

The dating game is just that – a game. Sometimes you win – and by win I mean you meet somebody you like and who likes you and that you enjoy spending time together for an appropriate length of time (whether that be forever, or until you realise that you just can’t get past your differing opinions on who made a better Batman), and sometimes you lose, by which I mean that it leaves you wondering whether you should just marry your cat and be done with it.

But when it does work out, you have to just throw the rule book out and admit that you do indeed like another human being. Relationships do make you vulnerable because you can’t enter into one without admitting that actually you are rather keen. Queen Keen of Keen Town, actually, and you don’t care who knows it.

All you can do is try and find yourself in a situation where everybody is as keen as each other so that that never feels like a bad thing. With somebody who also believes that eight is the optimum number of kisses to include at the end of a text message, and who feels just as strongly about the apostrophe as you do, and who agrees that, yes, Pancake Day really is the greatest day of the year.

The seven stages of falling asleep on the sofa

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It was only ever meant to be a little dose of innocent shut eye. Just a momentary escape from Match of the Day, or the adverts in the middle of Rude Tube, or a conversation with her husband about what they’re going to do on New Year’s Eve.

But now she’s woken from what accidentally turned into a full-on sleep and she’s livid. Her eyes dart from side to side, searching for what will tonight win the title ‘Single Most Annoying Thing In The World’. Will it be that glass on the coffee table that’s been there since last night, or will it be that pair of shoes that she specifically asked be placed on the mat but that stand there on the tiles, mocking her. Or will it be her own inability to stand up without tripping over the throw she’s been sleeping under and looking like a dickhead.

It’s the same story every time:

Stage 1: The ‘little lie down’. She slides down the sofa ‘just to get comfortable’ whilst watching television. This is her first crucial mistake. Lying down is basically giving her body permission to drift off to snooze town. She might as well just throw back a shot of Night Nurse, sing herself a lullaby and be done with it.

Stage 2: The cover. Whether it’s a throw that lives on the sofa (for the sole purpose of accidental nap time), an over-sized gentleman’s jumper or a freshly washed towel, she’ll grab anything she can get her paws on and throw it over herself, just to make the sofa feel even more like a bed. There is, of course, a very nice and very available bed just upstairs but in the interests of not moving a single muscle, she’s convinced herself that the sofa is superior.

Stage 3: The gentle warning. A voice of calm will suddenly speak out across the lounge. “Charlotte, don’t fall asleep. Remember you don’t like it when you wake up on the sofa. Why don’t you just go to bed, hmmm?” She appreciates his concern (even if his tone is just a little patronising – doesn’t he have any faith in her?) but she’s only going to be here a few minutes so he needn’t worry – she is totally in control.


Stage 4: Deep sleep. Before she knows it, she is spark out, dead to the world. Only an earthquake or the Coronation Street opening titles could wake her now. And if the gentleman in the room has it his way neither of those two things is going to happen any time soon. He’s just going to plug in the X-Box and enjoy a little bit of calm before the inevitable post-nap storm.

Stage 5: The awakening. The time comes when he wants to go to bed. And because he’s a nice man, (and one who has heard many times that she doesn’t appreciate waking up to find herself downstairs alone – why does he think it’s OK to abandon her?!) he attempts to wake her. He has a number of strategies for this – from the gentle to the electronic. There’s the gentle shake, the relentless repetition of her name until she wakes up shouting “WHAT DO YOU WANT STOP GOING ON AT ME” or, for the more comatose episodes, he will ring her mobile and let the sudden vibrating of the device next to her startle her back into reality. She does not appreciate the call.

Step 6: The stomp. And now she’s awake. And for a number of reasons – none of which are anybody’s fault but her own – she is cross. She’s cross that she fell asleep on the sofa AGAIN, cross that she’s still fully clothed and now inexplicably BOILING, and livid that she now has to drag her sorry behind upstairs whilst feeling (and looking) like a zombie. And so along the way she’ll find anything to direct her fury at – an out of date pile of newspapers, a scarf that’s fallen on the floor, or a bowl that has innocently missed its go in the dishwasher (largely because she was eating marshmallows from it before she fell asleep clutching it to her chest). She is a walking, shouting example of why one should indeed never wake a baby, a dog or a sugar-filled, world weary woman.

Step 7: The regret. Just as her mum always said, everything does indeed look better in the morning. In the light of day she’ll see that actually that overflowing pile of washing doesn’t really make her so mad that she wants to throw all the clothes out of the window so they can just ‘bloody well get washed in the rain’; and that if she’s honest, she remembers now that it was actually her idea to turn the heating up before she drifted off to sleep and that of course nobody is trying to make her sweat herself into oblivion. She apologises to the most patient man in the world (and to the dishwasher which she remembers kicking for a reason she can’t quite recall) and promises just to get into bed next time she feels tired.

And so another day commences, another commute gets underway, and the clock ticks until yet another evening of dinner and warmth and ill-advised portions of sweet snacks turns into a one-woman battle to stay conscious. She must just try to stay upright for as long as possible, and then send herself to bed as soon as her eyelids start weighing her down.

Because there’s only so many times this man is going to have the energy to try and negotiate with a woman who wakes up and starts shouting at a pile of newspapers for failing to find their way into the ‘cocking recycling bin’.

And anyway, he did warn her that this would happen in the first place. He’s just not sure that now is the best time to mention it.

*By she I mean me, by her I mean me, and by Charlotte, I mean me. What do you mean you already knew that?

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 make your relationship last: Stop being offended by everything

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He didn’t want to talk to me because he was playing FIFA.

“Hiya!” I said when he picked up the phone.

“Hi.” he said, distractedly.

I know that tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s playing on the X-Box and I have had the audacity to call mid-game.

It’s amazing how somebody can say so much by saying so little. What he really meant was: “I don’t understand why you are phoning me. If you’re not in danger, please can we talk about it later?” but in the interests of brevity, he stuck with “Hi” and I figured out the rest on my own. I just laughed, asked if we had any peanut M&Ms left in the cupboard (which was the real reason for my call) and said I’d be home in 20 minutes (to eat them).

Now, you might think this is a post about how rude it was of my husband to put the X-Box before me or about my outrage at the fact that he wasn’t just sitting at home waiting for me to return and tell him about the exceptionally well-priced fish and chips I had for my dinner (seriously though, they were just so reasonable) but that’s not the case. I wasn’t offended at all. And that’s because I’d have done exactly the same thing to him if he’d called whilst I was participating in my own hobbies – i.e. watching Coronation Street or singing along to the Bee Gees whilst loading the dishwasher (‘Now you can tell by the way I wash my fork, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk’ is the lyric I’m probably most proud of.)

If you are going to stay together, it has to be OK that sometimes (assuming the other person is indeed safe, well and not deprived of purse-friendly fried goods) you need to have a bit of time to yourself. Not everything you do is about the other person, sometimes it’s just about doing what you want – be it kicking an imaginary ball into an imaginary goal, or single-handedly improving popular music through the use of cutlery-based puns – whatever you need, that time is yours.

The alternative is to spend your entire relationship being offended by the other person’s actions. In a long term relationship, it’s not possible to keep up the perfection of the early days. People don’t always text back within five minutes because they have jobs and travelling and Sudoku to do. They don’t always want to hold your hand when you’re walking along the road because sometimes it’s boiling hot and a sweaty hand sandwich is not everybody’s cup of tea. You’ll also find that sleep is a lot more comfortable when everybody keeps to their own side of the bed. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you, it just means that lying like a starfish will always be more comfortable than spooning, I don’t care what anybody says.

It’s best just to not get cross about any of this stuff because it doesn’t mean anything. Actually, that’s not entirely true – it does mean that you’re comfortable, which is nice, and that you’re clear on your collective view about whose side of the bed is whose, which is pretty much as important as it gets.

With comfort and trust comes that lovely moment when you can both just chill the hell out. He can prioritise the performance of 11 little footballers for a while and I can see what’s been kicking off in Weatherfield without anybody getting offended.

That is, of course, until he calls me into the lounge to ask me to watch a replay of a goal one of his electronic men has scored. I always say they’re ‘great’ but I know he doesn’t believe I care.

It’s amazing how somebody can say so much by saying so little.

Relationships: Is this a test?

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IMG_4999People use a lot of different words to describe relationships: a journey, an adventure, a one way ticket to Smug Town… And whilst they’re all true (and the weather here in Smug Town really is wonderful at this time of year), they’re not the first words I would use. I would say that relationships are a test.

But, unlike school or university or learning to operate a car, this test doesn’t have an end point. There’s no exam or results day or dude willing to give you a licence if you just promise to start using your rear-view mirror. This test goes on indefinitely. As long as you’re together, you’ll be tested every minute of every day for the rest of your life. Sounds good, huh?

And though I realise that could sound like a bad thing – who wants to take A-level French every day? Non merci! In my experience, relationship tests are a lot more fun. Though now I think about it, they do involve a lot of the same modules…

1. Listening and interpretation 
The most valuable lesson you will learn is the difference between hearing what somebody has said and listening to what they meant. It’s a tough one to nail though, believe me. Let’s have a go now.

If I say “The bin needs changing” do I mean:
a) I love how full our bin is! Let’s keep it exactly as it is.
b) Let’s build Rubbish Mountain! Pass me those broken egg shells, will you?
c) It’s your turn to take the bin out. Please do it immediately.

Did you get it right? I hope so because if you went for anything other than c) then life is going to involve a lot more arguments than you might want.

Let’s try another one. If your husband says: “I’m at the pub. I’m just going to have one more drink and I’ll be home in an hour,” does he mean:
a) I’m actually already one my way home – I’m going to get back early and surprise you!
b) I’m being held here against my will. Please send help.
c) You might as well go to bed, I could be some time.

Unfortunately, the correct answer is c.

2. Speaking
There is a very close link between this module and the one above. If you want somebody to understand what it is that you’re really trying to say then you need to learn how to say it. Let me give you an example.

I used to think that if my other half asked me what was wrong and I just sighed and said “Nothing” then he would be able to use telepathy to figure out what was really going on. To me it was perfectly obvious that ‘nothing’ meant I was irritated that he’d left the bathroom light on AGAIN, that he finished all the milk before establishing my calcium levels, and that he kept picking holes in Coronation Street story lines. Or at least I did until I realised that he thought ‘nothing’ meant just that. I was sat there brimming with anger and he was just carrying on with his life like nothing was wrong. If I was ever going to get my point across, I was going to have to start using actual words.

I recommend that you do the same.

3. Writing 
In this modern world, relationships are lived out on email, text message, social media… which presents a constant test of your ability to write the right thing down. It’s crucial you establish ground rules to help avoid a word-based catastrophe.

What is your approach to texting each other? Do you include one kiss, three or 12? What is your standpoint on acronyms and trendy word shortenings? And greeting cards – what occasions warrant such a note? Are ready-printed poems acceptable or do you expect your own personalised verse?

If you don’t work this stuff out early doors then somewhere down the line one of you is going to get in big trouble. You’ll be sat innocently reading the paper on the fourth anniversary of the first time you went food shopping together and all of a sudden you’ll be presented with a card with a photograph of the two of you selecting bananas on the front and you’ll have nothing to offer in return. Don’t be that guy.

But don’t worry, the longer you’re together, the easier the tests will become.

You’ll learn how to ensure that an empty bin doesn’t mark the start of a rubbish fuelled quarrel, and that the sound of you exhaling isn’t enough to make your other half run for the door. Before you know it you’ll be texting sweet nothings and writing them limericks just to celebrate the fact that it’s Monday.

Just make sure you always check your spelling and grammar. Mistakes like that will lose you precious marks.

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.

How to take a man shopping

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IMG_5209Persuading a man to spend his weekend picking out new togs for himself is a tricky business. Not for the faint hearted. But in the interests of keeping him warm, and avoiding having a wardrobe that looks like an Oliver Twist production costume rack, you’re going to have to hit the shops. So here’s my seven point guide to taking your gentleman to the high street. I recommend having a good sleep the night before.

1. Give him time to prepare 
Whereas waking up on a Saturday morning to the suggestion of an impromptu shopping trip may be the greatest thing that could happen to you, he may look upon it in the same way as you would tickets to an all-day X-Box tournament. Angrily. So it’s best to plant the retail seed early – perhaps one to two weeks in advance – so that he has time to resign himself to his fate.

2. Keep his spirits up
For this trip to be worth your while you’re going to need to be the retail equivalent of Mr Motivator. Constant praise, reminders of how much you’ve achieved so far, and willingness to sport borderline obscene Lycra throughout are all the keys to your success. (Ok, perhaps not the last one but it will make it easier to run back and forth between changing rooms.)

3. Be prepared to be a personal shopper
You’ve spent the last fortnight telling him that you don’t want to be married to a man that doesn’t own a single pair of matching socks and that the jeans he wears with a hole in the crotch are going to get him arrested, and that if he’ll just agree to come shopping, you will help him choose AMAZING new things that will change his life. So now you’ve got to prove it. It’s no use leaving him to wander the shop floor, staring confusedly at something he’ll later learn is a snood; you’ve got to make yourself useful, choose him things, listen when he says he likes something and then find it in every colour. I suggest you wear comfortable shoes; you’re going to be on your feet for some time.

4. Incorporate regular snack stops
The only way you’re going to manage to make a day of it (and survive yourself without passing out) is through the inclusion of regular breaks. And, just as with a toddler or a puppy, food can also be used a reward “Just try on one more t-shirt on for me and then we can go and have a biscuit, ok?” 

(For those readers who found this section too patronising to bear, I feel it’s important at this point to remind you that this is a parody. Though, coincidentally, this method does also actually work surprisingly well.)

5. Find a shop he likes and don’t leave until you’ve bought everything in it 
Persuading him to go shopping is one thing; getting him to actually buy something is another. In my experience, (which I’ll admit is limited to just the one man so feel free to take this with as little salt as you wish) getting a gent to commit to an item of clothing is very difficult. And particularly so when his wardrobe comes with the following rules:
– No bold colours
– No blue jeans
– No neck lines that make him “look like a knobhead”
He would rather wear the same clothes forever than risk looking a fool (a risk I am personally too happy to take in the interests of spending some cash). After many years and one traumatic trip to Oxford Street, during which he claimed he was leaving not just London but the country if I ever suggested we went there again, we have managed to find a total of four shops he likes. So a couple of times a year, I take him there, order everything in a medium, and get it trucked home.

6. Take no excuses
When you’re both starting to get tired and the lure of the sofa and Cadbury’s Twirl four-pack at home is getting too strong, he’ll start looking for any excuse not to go into a shop. The fact that they’re playing the Black Eyed Peas, that the coat hangers are a bit lurid or that the shop assistant has unkempt sideburns cannot be accepted as valid reasons to walk away.

7. Know when it’s time to go home
Having said that, if you’re not careful, your military approach to this shopping expedition could quickly turn from ‘caring and cute’ to ‘irritating and divorce-inducing’ if overdone. As much as it’s important to get everything you can out of this day because, let’s face it, it won’t happen again until the clocks go forward, it’s more important to leave with your relationship intact and without becoming one of those couples who has a screaming row on the tube because someone didn’t take the pyjamas you lovingly picked out for him seriously. Don’t be those guys; go home, have a shower. That Lycra will be in need of a wash.

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.

Hens vs stags: Two very different dos

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Hen do badgeLocation
Me: Manchester
Him: Munich

Paraphernalia
Me: Two pink sashes, one balloon, and one excellent badge (see right).
Him: PVC lederhosen.

Memory
Me: I can remember every single thing. Every drink, every dance move, every cupcake with a picture of the groom’s face printed on it.
Him: Absolutely none whatsoever beyond 10pm (although he can’t actually remember the precise time he lost his memory so it was probably a lot earlier than that).

Dancing
Me: Enough to excuse me from exercise for at least a month / that it’s a wonder nobody got hurt / that I must never become famous lest the CCTV footage comes back to haunt me.
Him: I’m not sure if stumbling into a cutlery table and smashing it all over the floor of a busy restaurant really counts as dancing…

Entertainment
Me: Food, sitting down, spa treatments, and cabaret featuring a Madonna montage that was so perfect it made me want to buy a cone shaped bra. I’m sure I’d get a lot of wear out of it.
Him: Does watching your friend ‘tombstone’ your best man into a breeze block, knocking him unconscious, count as entertainment? I’m told the answer is ‘not at the time but absolutely 100% yes the following day’.

Vomiting
Me: Ok, perhaps a little but it’s not my fault my food allergies couldn’t even give me my cocking hen do weekend off.
Him: A good keg’s worth each, apparently. But if you will drink your weight in beer and jagermeister, you will suffer the consequences.

Casualties
Me: One pedicure chip caused – I believe – by over kicking to Footloose.
Him: I’m told that at the height of his inebriation he demanded an ambulance be called. Thankfully nobody was sober enough to dial 1.1.2 in the right order so he just had to sleep/vomit it off instead.

Photos
Me: We’re women: if we did it, we snapped it.
Him: Once you’ve seen one picture of your future husband with his unmentionables tucked into tight PVC shorts, there’s really no need to see more.

Recovery
Me: I’m writing this on the same day as I returned from the hen so I think I’m through the worst of it.
Him: Completion date TBC.