“It’s time us girls played these chancers at their own game”

I’VE never been what you might call a domestic goddess — anyone who knows me will confirm I have a relaxed attitude to housework.

Dishes be damned. Dust, you’ll live to fight another day, there’s telly on I can’t miss.

And don’t get me started on advanced housework like painting and wallpapering. It seemed a good idea to start decorating my hall two years ago. And I’m sure it will look just fabulous when it’s finished.

In short, I’m just a man in disguise.

And I admit I’m lucky — I’m married to someone who’s a fantastic chef and knows that Pledge isn’t a solemn promise we made when we got married. (Though if you could get that fence fixed, Mister, that would be fab.)

When I make up my mind that I’m going to tidy up, though, I throw myself into it. Sleeves are rolled up, rubber gloves are donned and feather dusters are flourished.

As a wise old cleaner once said, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. I think it was Hilda Ogden.

So why, oh why, in the name of Chae do men think that halfhousework thing is acceptable?

Come on blokes, own up. You know what I’m talking about.

You’ll wipe down the kitchen worktops. But if there are a few random crumbs that have escaped the cull, it’s no big deal.

You’ll hoover the living room carpet. But if there are shoes and a magazine lying on the floor before you start, no problemo! You’ll just work around them. No need to move the darn things.

And if you’re anything like a certain man I know, you’ll clean the sink. And when asked what you used to clean it, you’ll say “water” and roll your eyes at your partner’s pickiness.

It’s not just some men, it’s 99%. I know this because I’ve conducted an (un)scientific poll of female friends, colleagues and relations.

And they all agreed— men don’t do housework properly. Notice I said don’t. Not can’t. Because it’s a fiendishly cunning plan that Men have concocted. They know if they’re doing a pathetic job of polishing and are basically blasting dust particles into the atmosphere, their other half will grab the duster from them in a fury and shout they’d be as well doing it themselves.

Across the country, women are nodding in agreement, while men are fuming that their ruse has been rumbled.

It’s time the girls played these chancers at their own game. We need to stop being so picky. Let a few crumbs lie now and again. Maybe one day, when we’re half-heartedly swishing a feather duster about, our other half will grab it from us, shout they can never trust us to do anything properly and flounce off to find their new best friend, Mr Sheen.