During our twenty-nine years of marriage I have noticed that my wife likes to claim ownership of certain things whilst rejecting others.
Whilst not wanting to step into the murky waters of sexism, I am assured by many of my male friends that she is not alone in this regard.
Just a few days ago she used the word 'my' when describing 'our' bedroom.
Granted there have been a number of nights over the last three decades when I have been banished to the sofa for some snoring related offence. Even so, I am sure that I should have equal share in its occupancy.
Now I think about it my presence in our bedroom is limited to a small proportion of it. I have just worked out that with the 18 inches square of my bedside cabinet and the hook behind the door I can only claim around four percent of the room.
Once our youngest daughter left for university my bride suggested I store my clothes in her old wardrobe; to be honest it is useful having my clothes available when I have to leave early for work. Fortunately I still have occupancy of an eighteen strip of our king size bed.
As far as the bathroom is concerned I do have half a shelf in the cabinet but where I do have the most space is on the shelf that contains reading materials. And, although my wife likes to purge the contents every now and then, I have a favourite sports book, a comedian's biography, and an electronics catalogue.
Even with this attempted take over bid Mrs M still calls it her bathroom. I need to work harder.
Over the years I have come to terms with my dessert being known as 'ours' when we are at a restaurant but this reshaping of our world is a little too much.
As I type I am reminded that my bride has made claim to two thirds of our sofa as she reclines next to me; she is trying to convince me that I can type and tickle her feet at the same time.
When I ask Mrs M why she feels the need to call so many things hers rather than ours she responds she tells me that it is a trade off. She gets the pretty things and I get the functional items. Apparently, because I love to cook I have ownership of two cupboards in the kitchen.
At this point she announce to me 'From now on you shall be known as lord of the pans'. I think I deserve more than mockery.
I responded by saying that I was just off to the pub to spend some money from 'my' joint bank account.
Hers, Mine or Ours
Feeling ill but still keeps her dignity
Mrs M and I have been a little unwell over the last two weeks. It seems that having avoided our entire coughing and sneezing family members during the Christmas period, we have caught the tail end of some bug trying its best to make us miserable just before spring arrives.
It is unusual for my wife to feel ill as, being a nurse, she seems to have built up a healthy amount of resistance to common bugs over the years. We have now, however, developed the same symptoms and as a result we have stereo sickness.
I don't want to appear selfish but being under the weather at the same time as your partner only adds to the complications; I now have to share the attention and sympathy with another person.
Our malady started with a slight sore throat and a cough that tended to sound like one of those false noises trying to convince others that we were not well. For a while it seemed that we would perform this drama in sync with each other.
That is where the similarity ends. Mrs M is a good patient and suffers in relative silence. I employ all my amateur dramatic skills to ensure that everyone knows the pain I am going through.
In a similar way I ensure that the scene is complete by looking as ill as I feel; Unshaven chin and sticky up hair until I become Stig of the Dump. My wife, however, still seems to maintain her natural amount of grace even through the most trying of circumstances.
Even after one rather painful and heavy session of nausea Mrs M, almost by instinct, picked up a brush as she returned to bed and tidied her hair. Even when we had to visit the emergency doctor in the middle of the night a couple of nights ago she still managed to look stylish and presentable whilst at the same time feeling ill and feverish.
Determined to see the positive side my bride took the opportunity of weighing herself after about three days of not eating exclaiming 'there must be some upside to being ill'.
She has obviously been in some pain and thus unable to function normally, yet she is still unwilling to let go of all the marks of dignity.
Not so I; other than the odd gargle with mouthwash my usual routines have been put on hold until I get back to wanting bacon again. (A sure sign of health in my book)
I mentioned the idea of bacon to Mrs M and she didn't seem too impressed. She ran off to brush her hair again.
One roast potato! I ask you.
Our dear friends Mel and Sheila took us out for the day to enjoy a country drive and some honest pub grub.
The food was excellent and, to my liking, came in ample measure.
I had started to feel that, in inverse proportion to my waistline, food size had reduced over the last few years.
But here in this Yorkshire country pub the landlady was bucking the trend.
The hotel we visited a few weeks earlier was the opposite end of the spectrum; I was served a small piece of lamb laying on a miniscule amount of mash. The plate also contained two baby carrots and only one, yes one, roast potato.
My wife tried to subdue my inner outrage at such injustice by saying it was the way that the top chefs did it these days.
Then it struck me: what an incredible marketing campaign these resteratuers have waged recently. What a master stroke by these master chefs.
They have convinced the british public that fine dining is when you pay more money for less food.
Never has such economic brilliance been seen since the invention of the mini skirt.
Well this proud northerner has seen through their plan and intends to revolt by ordering a side dish of chips with every meal I have in one of these psuedo-chic establisments.
In addition to this I shall demand proper gravy when they try to offer my a smudge of, what the menus describe as, jus.
Gordon Ramsey might like to tell us that his 'F' word stands for food but we now know it means the customer is a Fool.
It is time for a revolution: up and down the country citezans no longer need to stifle an exclamation of 'is that it?' when offered a large plate with a solitary island of food in the middle.
One roast potato! I ask you.
Perhaps the best response when faced with such paucity would be to say 'if I had wanted a starter I would have ordered one'.
If the menu says that your meat comes on a bed of mash ask them for a king size mattress.
