It's a miserable winter's day in the North of England. But I can afford to sit and enjoy the cosy fire because the house is clean and tidy, the washing is done and dinner is well on the way to being cooked. I know all this because I cleaned, washed and cooked it all.
2 years ago my wife, Margaret, came home from the Brisbane hospital where she worked and changed our world forever. She'd been offered the opportunity to study oncology (cancer) at the Royal Marsden. What did I think? I must confess to a sneaking fear of degenerating into a 10 pints a day man, mired in depression after being shackled to the kitchen sink for hours.
I probably didn't agonise for long enough about moving 13,000 miles from family and friends and on the challenges of becoming a house-husband. No longer are we on an equal footing - I am dependant on her. I still get to take out the rubbish, though Margaret hasn't quite got the snoring thing right yet. These days, I spend more time talking to the tomato plants than I do human beings.
Picture this: Margaret comes home from work and finds me slumped in front of the TV watching Neighbours.
"Hi, how was your day? What's for dinner?"
"God, do I have to clean the dunny and then have to figure out what we're having for dinner as well?"
"Ok, fine", says Margaret, sounding hurt and exits stage left.
Nowadays, I find myself actually enjoying home-making activities and I spend more time looking at the cooking pages of the paper than the news pages. Margaret and I are truly alone together for the first time but we've been given the chance to find out whether we've married the right people. I think we've made a couple of excellent choices. And who knows, perhaps I could go out and find a real job? But, then again, best not to rush these things, after all, who'd cook dinner?
