Is a woman’s work ever done — by men?

EIGHT out of 10 married women do more housework than their husband, according to the Institute for Public Policy Research. Just one in 10 married men do an equal amount. Never afraid of a dust-up, our Sunday Post writers polish their arguments and get re

“Our sausage- fingered hands make it difficult to grasp feather dusters”

WRITING this has put me in a no-win situation.

If I tell the truth, I’ll have heavy things thrown at me in the street by outraged women.

If I lie, my wife will beat me to death with a hoover.

On balance, I at least stand a chance of escaping down a side street outside whereas at home I can easily be cornered and set upon with a brush attachment. So the shameful truth it is.

When it comes to housework it isn’t that I’m lazy. Actually, let me rephrase that — it is that I’m lazy.

But it’s also that my standards just don’t seem to match those of my wife.

I try to make a good job of tidying the living room, for example. First I hoover the rug — except for under the coffee table, but who sees that area apart from cats and babies, and it’s kind to leave morsels for them to nibble.

I then polish the top of the coffee table, the part people see. This usually involves brushing crumbs onto the clean rug, but it’s the thought that counts.

I even plump some cushions— which tires me out enough to require a lengthy sit down, immediately unplumping them.

And that’s the living room done. Worthy of a photo feature in a glossy homes magazine.

Except that when my wife comes home she doesn’t get all emotional about the hard work I’ve put in.

There are no tearful embraces, no offers of a massage to ease my cushionplumping muscles and no excited phone calls to friends and relatives to speak in awestruck tones of my achievement.

No, the first thing she does is order me to move the coffee table and hoover properly (but what about the cats and babies? No one thinks about the cats and babies!). Then she re-plumps the cushions while making sinister muttering noises that suggest she’d like to re-plump my face . Finally she asks if I’ve dusted. She always asks this. The answer is always no. If the answer is ever yes that is one of the sure signs, along with the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse and Justin Bieber being elected US president, that the world is about to end. Men simply aren’t built to dust. Our sausage-fingered hands make it difficult to grasp feather dusters and cobwebs get tangled in our beards.

In my defence, I do load and empty the dishwasher, do my own ironing, move furniture around, empty the bins, mow the lawn etc. You can send me a chocolate medal c/o The Sunday Post if you wish. In summing up, yes, I do housework. Just not very well.

If you plan to throw things at me in the street I’ll be the one wearing a helmet and and clutching a feather duster.