A sexist, embarrassing relic or a badge of honour..

IF ANYONE called me a housewife I’d be tempted to bash them over the head with a rolling pin (if I owned one). I’m not married to my house. I haven’t pledged a lifetime of commitment to housework.

My husband knows better than to suggest it’s all my responsibility because I’m a woman.

I do not possess an apron because I do not live in the 50s or in a real-life George and Mildred sitcom. And a quick glance at my home makes it glaringly obvious I don’t spend all my day cooking, cleaning or tidying.

Why on earth would I have spent four years studying to win my dream job as a journalist only to spend my days dusting my skirting boards?

Chores are squeezed in between full-time working hours and split 50:50 between my husband and I (I included this to avoid argument but actually, I do WAY more than him).

Even so, I spend a fraction of the time working on my house than Mum did. And it shows. Not just in our home and garden, which has a “lived in” look. But also in the embarrassing fact I am utterly useless at all things domestic.

My cooking is so disastrous my daughters know it’s tea time when the fire alarm goes off.

The only meal I made my husband in an effort to seduce him nearly choked him (spaghetti so undercooked it crunched).

I much prefer cooking up ways to avoid housework. Instead of tackling the messy cupboard upstairs, I have banned everyone from opening it.

I solve problems of torn clothes with a speedy drive to Marks & Spencer to replace them. Who has time to hand sew hems?

If my household jobs are neglected, so is my husband. Poor Michael envies the way my mum packs my dad’s suitcase and lovingly prepares his meals.

And when my mum chastises me for not making his tea when he comes home, I hit back: “Has he broken his arms?”

Things are not going to change. If Michael wanted a doting wife to warm his slippers, he was born in the wrong era.

Housewives are has-beens. Long live liberated women.

BEING a proud housewife, I took the job as seriously as any of today’s CEOs. My daily deadlines were ensuring my husband Ron’s meals – always made from scratch – were on the table when he came home from the office.

I juggled my housekeeping budget with the tenacity of a City whizz, investing in a sewing machine so my three children had years of home-made clothes, and dismissed their complaints at wearing dresses that matched the curtains.

Productivity levels in my utility room were off the scale, as every day was a steamy whirl of washing, folding and ironing.

And downtime was minimal, as even when the kids were in bed and Ron was enjoying a peaceful cuppa (made by me, of course) I busied myself knitting.

Even weekends were work days. I spent them planting and weeding our garden, or up a ladder hanging wallpaper.

Job satisfaction was high. My career aspirations were to have a happy and healthy husband and kids, a gleaming house and neat garden. All my friends, and our mums, did the same.

But when my youngest son Bob, now 42, started school I felt I could contribute more by going to work so I returned to my prekids role as a PA and for over 30 years enjoyed a second career.

I never ditched the housewife role, though. Even today, if my husband woke to find he didn’t have an ironed shirt or polished shoes, I doubt he’d go to work.

He wouldn’t know how to sort those things himself.

I call Julie’s husband “poor Michael” because she does nothing for him.

She never has dinner ready when he comes in from work, even when he’s travelled home from abroad. But she says she does that to protect Michael from her terrible cooking and she has a point. It could kill him.

But Julie has always worked so makes a fair contribution to her family household.

And no one should ever look down on anyone else’s job.

So I will try not to judge Julie for the fact her children are used to finding lumps in their gravy.

And I’ll try not to laugh at the fact she is the world’s worst housewife who can’t even knit. But it’s very hard.