The Australian Women's Weekly

HUMOUR: all presents are accounted for

Christmas is all about great teamwork, according to husbands who want to take credit where no credit is due.

- WITH AMANDA BLAIR

Around this time every year a mysterious stranger enters our lives. They don’t stay for long, they don’t make a mess and they don’t outstay their welcome, which I should be grateful for considerin­g the in ux of relatives who appear over the Christmas period, often uninvited.

They also make themselves known around family birthdays and always near Mother’s Day. My husband announces their arrival when he walks into the room and asks me the same question he’s been asking me for 21 years: “What have WE got my Dad for Christmas?” At this point I stop whatever it is that I’m doing, look him in the eye and ask the same question I’ve been asking for 21 years: “Just who is this WE, darling? Can you please introduce me to them? WE hasn’t got anything for your father for Christmas. I’ve purchased your father a new golf shirt which I’ll be wrapping up and putting under the tree from all of us, but WE has nothing to do with the Christmas shopping, not this year, not the last nor the year before that.”

His exasperate­d reply is always the same: “Don’t be funny, what have WE got Mum, the kids and Uncle Pete who’s coming to lunch this year?” Again

I can never resist the opportunit­y to reinforce my point with, “WE hasn’t done any Christmas shopping, WE has had nothing to do with any of the preparatio­ns for the festive season. I have it all sorted. I just think you can tell your lovely friend WE that it’s all done thankyouve­rymuch.”

I don’t mind doing this presentbuy­ing job. In fact, I think if I had any assistance from my husband and we actually shopped together the whole experience would sour. There would be ghts over selection, style and, being of Scottish origin, he’d constantly question the price. I’d also spend half my valuable retail time gently but rmly explaining that nobody in our family (including the kids) wants a battery-operated pepper grinder with LED lights.

If we shopped together I’m sure we’d turn into one of those matching tracksuit wearing couples, silently and sullenly pushing the trolley, the resentment for the task and each other rmly etched on our faces.

Nay, I want to keep my marriage alive and gure that the key to happiness is dividing jobs into an old-school his ‘n’ hers arrangemen­t. He does his “jobs” unaided and unchalleng­ed by me, and I do my “jobs”. Like Julius Caesar, we divide and conquer, albeit domestical­ly.

It was an organic process – we never sat down and decided who should do what, rather the jobs found us and, like Torvill and Dean, they just t perfectly.

HIS: Shoe polishing, lawn care and maintenanc­e, light bulb changing, coffee making, wound and joint strapping, hedge trimming and bakery product purchasing. He was responsibl­e for jar opening until the tech revolution cruelly made that position redundant with the invention of the magical JarKey jar opener.

But he’s held onto his most treasured domestic activity, outside meats, id est, meat products exclusivel­y requiring alfresco barbecue or charcoal cookery.

HERS: Dry cleaning drop-off/pick-up, laundry stain removal, leaf blowing, social calendar entries, deletions and excuses, linen changing and selection, school form administra­tion and sh and chip ordering because annoyingly, he never gets enough chips. Maintenanc­e of three-bin system inclusive of annual hard rubbish pick-up, cutlery draw crumb removal, inside meats, and my favourite domestic job, rug cleaning. And no, this isn’t a euphemism – 24-hour hire of a rug cleaner makes me deeply happy.

So consider these keys to a happy marriage via largely stereotypi­cal yet strangely functional and comforting chore distributi­on my gift to you.

WE’d like to wish you all a very

Merry Christmas. My husband and I would, too ...

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