I'D like to tell you some of the things about my wife that irritate me. And for the first time in my married life I don't fear the consequences of what she would do to me if she ever found out what I'm about to divulge.

Have I suddenly shed my meek and submissive skin to reveal a hitherto hidden layer of courage, audacity and lots of bottle in exposing my wife's faults to the public gaze?

No, it's a lot more simple than that. I've just no intention of taking a copy of today's BEN home with me.

Don't get me wrong. My wife is a fantastic lady and I seldom regret ever marrying her.

But why, for instance, does she persist in yelling at me to get downstairs and have my dinner before it goes cold - when we're having salad.

And why, when I'm driving, does she accuse me of going through traffic lights "on lemon".

And why, oh why, does she wait until my favourite TV programme is about to begin before she starts compiling a shopping list for the following day. It does tend to ruin my televiewing concentration when every few seconds I'm interrogated on whether we've run out of teabags, dogfood, semi-skimmed milk or corn plasters.

And it's not as if I can merely pretend to listen and mumble "That's an interesting concept" at two-minute intervals. Her shopping list inquiries demand proper answers.

So now I'm taking the opportunity to add to MY list - of grouses, that is.

Like why does my wife call a creche a creetch and why does she refer to Chicago as Chigaco. Fortunately, we don't often discuss the state of day nursery facilities in the American mid-West. If we did, it would seriously send me nuts...

"And what about the things about YOU that irritate ME?" my wife asked as she leaned over my shoulder while I was writing this column.

"Like what?" I asked, swiftly throwing the nearest tarpaulin over my typewriter.

"Like your cyclical bouts of derangement," she replied. "You tend to go off the rails every four years. And it's always in November." I shrugged. "That's because I dread the onset of winter and we seem to have bad winters every four years."

My wife thought for a moment. "I don't think what you've just said is meteorologically correct."

"I know it isn't," I said. "I was just trying to throw you off the scent as regards my periodic episodes of eccentricity. Whoops! I've dragged us back on to the subject again, haven't I."

I stopped talking and looked out of the window to check if winter was coming. Then I silently prayed that my wife wouldn't mention Noel Coward.

"And what about Noel Coward?" she said suddenly.

I shuddered at the memory. You see, about eight years ago I went through a Noel Coward phase.

I really admired that man. He was, I reckon, Britain's foremost modern dramatist, composer, actor, screenwriter, director and producer. And I'm sure he was multi-talented, too. Anyway, I used to come home from work, take a long, soothing bath and slowly glide down the stairs, wearing my dressing gown and carpet slippers.

Then I would slide gently on to the sofa and pose languidly with a long cigarette holder in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.

"Am I supposed to be impressed by your foolish attempts at looking ultra-sophisticated?" my wife asked me one gloomy evening in November, 1991.

"Please yourself, dwarling, it matters not a jot to me," I replied in clipped luvvy tones.

"Well, you can knock off that dwarling nonsense for a start," my wife said. "You both sound like and look like a prat."

I slowly crossed my legs and jiggled my foot in mild irritation. "You just fail to appreciate that you are in the presence of genius."

My wife snorted. "Sorry, luv, but I can't take you seriously with that bent dog-end stuffed into your cheap plastic cigarette holder, and the brandy glass which I suspect contains merely Lucozade."

I laughed disdainfully. "So I slipped up on a couple of the minor details, dwarling," I yawned. "Anyway, I think I shall retire upstairs shortly and pen a musical comedy or two."

My wife giggled. "And I must take you even less seriously with that stupid get-up you've got on." I raised my eyebrows to show surprise. "Might you perhaps be referring to the silk dressing gown and the plush carpet slippers? One has to make the effort, you know."

"No," she guffawed, pointing at my garb. "I mean that ancient five-quarter length gabardine raincoat that belonged to your father, and the ripped galoshes with the holes in the soles."

I pulled off a galosh and hurled it at my wife. "Must you ruin everything!"

I put down my fag and the Lucozade, grabbed the hem of my dad's raincoat and pulled the garment over my face. I'm withdrawing from the world," I announced in muffled tones.

Peeping through a buttonhole in my dad's raincoat I watched my wife stare at me for a moment. Then she switched her gaze to our mutt Brian who was racing round in circles chasing his tail.

"Mad dogs and Englishmen," she muttered and grabbed the phone book to look up the number of a cheap psychiatrist.

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