It’s either me or the electric fly-swatter – one of us has to go!

WHEN it comes to appreciating the finer qualities of a woman you have pledged to spend the rest of your life with, I bow to no-one.

As I intimated last month, to describe Mrs Wells as “my other half” doesn’t even come close to encapsulating all she means to me. But, having said that, there are times, especially when we find ourselves in each other’s pocket for 24 hours a day, when she comes close to driving me to distraction.

A case in point arose very shortly after we docked in northern Spain at the start of our two-year European tour.

Having cleared customs and passport control without a hitch, we programmed the sat-nav for our first stop, located the westbound carriageway of the Autovia de Cantabrico – undeniably one of the world’s great free motorways – and, in the words of the late Syd Barrett, set the controls for the heart of the sun.

If you’re not familiar with this corner of Spain, it’s known as the Costa Verde, or “the green coast”. Driving west, the rugged coastline of northern Spain is on your right and the epic, firlined slopes of the Picos de Europa mountains are on your left.

At this time of the year, the roads are wonderfully clear, to the extent you feel the good people of Spain have somehow conspired to present their country to you in the best possible light. And while driving through this other Eden it’s easy to let your mind wander and be distracted by little things.

Like a saucepan crashing down from one of the motorhome’s overhead lockers.

Shaken and rattled by this, I pulled over into a service area and took stock of the situation.

“I thought all the pans were in the cupboard under the cooker,” I said, my perplexion just on the right side of incredulity.

“Well, most of them are,” she said, “but there were some I just couldn’t squeeze in. So I put them in the haberdashery cupboard.”

Now some of you might be familiar with the kind of expedition we’re attempting. Our little motorhome isn’t awash with storage and, with space at an absolute premium, it’s important not a cubic inch is wasted on the kind of fripperies and flounces which women seem to accumulate and become attached to down the years.

Which is why the sudden revelation that we even had a “haberdashery cupboard” came as such a shock.

I leaned forward, put my right elbow on the top of the steering wheel, rested my forehead on my right hand and emitted a little sigh.

“I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t bring anything with us that wasn’t essential,” I said. “How is ‘haberdashery’ going to make a meaningful contribution to our lives over the next two years?” “Well, I need lots of material and thread to go with my sewing machine.” “Your sewing machines are being stored at your dad’s. Aren’t they?” “Apart from one,” she said. “And where’s that?” “In the toolchest.” “But the toolchest was full when we packed it the other day!”

“Well, it wasn’t when emergency generator out.” “And where’s that now?” “In my dad’s garage.” There then ensued a full and frank appraisal of all the things that she had managed to stow away on board, like the John Lewis spiraliser (“for our dinner parties”), the stainless steel ice bucket, the garden gnome, the electric fly-swatter (“in case the three boxes of fly paper don’t catch all the little critters”) and, of course, the GHD hair-straighteners. I took the

“You do realise these need a lot of electricity to work,” I said, waving the ceramic tongs in her face. “They won’t work when we’re only using 12v power from the van batteries.”

“Really? So how am I meant to use them?”

“Well, now you know why we had a generator.”

So, there you have it. For the next two years, while my wife contends with the awful prospect of facing some days with frizzy hair, I will at least have the consolation of knowing that my shirts and trousers can always be professionally repaired.