Yes, wives do nag – but only because we’re always right

ISILENTLY passed my husband the paper, and pointed at the headline. Q: Why do men die young? A: Because their wives nag them! Important Background: only the day before, we’d had a bad spat about the dishwasher again and were still on virtual non-speaks.

I’d come home from work in the early afternoon to find that this time he’d piled his breakfast bowl and cup, then his lunch plate smeared with ketchup on top of the dishwasher that I’d put on as I left that morning, instead of emptying it etc etc. The red mist descended.

The article under the headline concerned an NHS boss, Sir Andrew Morris, who’d regaled a conference of 150 top healthcare delegates including the head of the NHS, Simon Stevens, with his expert opinion on the grim new data revealing that life expectancy has gone into reverse thrust thanks to our ailing health and social care systems.

‘Usually the blokes die off earlier,’ said Sirandrew (white, male, 61, head of Frimley NHS Trust, salary £215k a year) to the health honchos, ‘because they’re nagged to death by their other half’. Cue predictable uproar.

My husband perked up considerably, though, as he read it. ‘Spot on,’ he crowed. ‘Men give up the ghost because we can’t take another bloody row about the dishwasher!’

He then chuntered on about how nobody could call a spade a spade any more, and about how chaps who were guilty of telling the truth always had to apologise if not resign ( Morris had to issue a grovelling statement, needless to say, after his hilarious utterance).

‘In fact, I’m sure I get my high blood pressure from living with you,’ he said, which was annoying in itself (think of all the women who’ve actually saved men’s lives by bullying them into going to their GP).

‘Are you calling me a nag?’ I broke in, not hoping for an honest answer.

‘Nag? Nagging is the most feminine thing about you,’ he replied. ‘ You’re actually an alpha male equipped with a deadly female nagging capability – like an exceptionally high-spec fighter jet.’

At which distressing juncture I must look deep within my own heart. Is he right? Do I snap when the children leave their grot everywhere, finish packets and shove them back in the cupboard? Do I tut and sigh when he leaves a spoor of Nicorette gum all over the house, strews wet towels around, and lies on the clean white duvet with his outdoor shoes on? Yes I do. And do I fail to salute the things he does rather than lament the things he leaves undone? Yes I do.

For example last month I found myself emptying the dishwasher for the umpteenth time and raged – actually, sod this. Why am I the ONLY ONE WHO EVER DOES THIS? I went into the garden to take deep breaths and when I came back I found him in the kitchen. ‘Do you think you could finish emptying…’

‘I’ve already done it,’ he replied triumphantly, like a moustachioed French duellist crying: ‘Touché!’

Our difficulties result from his adherence to the Philip May doctrine, a fault he shares with so many. As you will remember, the PM’s hubby doesn’t object too strenuously to lending a hand, but he likes to determine when. ‘I get to decide when I take the bins out,’ Mr May said. ‘Not if I take them out.’ That for many men is the definition of fair and shared domestic sovereignty.

But I admit it’s not mine. I like people to do things according to my diktat and spec. Not theirs. Because my way is the right way.

So, yup, I am a nag – but I wouldn’t have to be one if everyone did the things the way I wanted them to do them without me having to tell them first.