We’ll agree to disagree on planning our meals

Opposites attract in relationships, right? They possibly do, although as the years go by I can’t help wondering whether it’s actually just one of those keep-the-peace platitudes people say, like, “It’s good luck if a bird poos on your head” or “It’s an augury of marital bliss if it drizzles down on your wedding day”.

Anyway, in many respects, my husband and I are entirely opposite, and that works.

He has a copy of Essential Militaria on his bedside table. I thrash my phone at Scrabble before I turn out the light. We both like wine, but he prefers red and I only ever drink white; we both avoid rosé as it can lead to fist-fights. In short, ours ought to be a match made in domestic heaven. But the major sticking point is my need to plan meals ahead, and his refusal to oblige.

New research shows one in five people has no idea what to cook on any given day. I like a weekly menu because the rest of my life is so ridiculously chaotic, it lends structure and ensures the kids don’t contract scurvy.

However, at Woods Towers, we take it in turns to cook. My other half baulks at deciding ahead – even if I text him reproachfully at work – because he likes to saunter home and pick up delicious artisanal products en route according to

his epicurean mood. At least that’s the theory.

In practice, he returns empty-handed at 7.30pm, looks dolefully into the fridge and rustles up penne with bacon and homemade tomato sauce. Again.

Occasionally, it’s Ready Steady omelette with chilli and chorizo (he’s Scottish, so no other vegetables are factored in), but essentially it’s the same-old, same-old store cupboard staples and it drives me nuts.

In fairness, he’s very appreciative when I present him with lasagne, grilled halloumi with Mediterranean vegetables and couscous, or a Keralan fish curry – which is quicker than you’d think, even if you grind your own spices.

I’m not showing off (well, maybe a bit), it’s just that I fry onions to relax. And they have to go into something.

Which is my way of admitting that I enjoy our status quo and should maybe stop complaining. Still, it’s food for thought.