I CAME across an interesting fact online the other day: If you live with an accountant your chances of having a successful relationship are doomed.
The article I’d skimmed through was on Facebook, so I knew it must be true.
As it turned out, when they said ‘accountant’ they meant someone who ‘accounts’ for all the chores they do in the relationship and compares it to what their other half does.
Thankfully yer man is definitely not one of those, as not only does he do his fair share of ‘normal’ chores, but he’s also in charge of all the dud jobs.
‘Mum, the loo isn’t flushing.’
‘Don’t worry I’ll sort it,’ I reply, as I shut himself into whichever bathroom’s in trouble. Sometimes I even remember to check in on him. ‘Are you nearly finished?’
He’s also in charge of all bins including, the outdoor recycling one, better known as the Big Blue Bin.’
Into this we chuck all the recycling from a smaller bin in the kitchen. The unspoken rule is, the family fill the smaller bin but never empty it, even if it’s overflowing.
Occasionally yer man gets a bit peeved.
‘Why am I the only one who empties this?’ but we know he’s only asking a rhetorical question.
I have no idea what magic he performs on the eternally full Big Blue Bin, but every day he manages to make room. I remember once upon a time his tactic was to pick our youngest up and stand her in it, holding her hands as she jumped up and down.
Regrettably, I am now the smallest in our house and I can only imagine the scene if he tried to hoist me on top of that bin every few days.
Our perfect domestic arrangements were seriously scuppered last week when the doctor gave himself a sick note. Lifting and dud jobs were forbidden. As my children are less than brilliant within the home, it meant I’d to take over all jobs, including the dud ones.
Thankfully the toilets behaved and with the recycling policeman off duty, you wouldn’t believe how empty the Big Blue Bin remained.
However, I couldn’t stop the grass from growing. As the lawn began to look like a field, I could see yer man’s hands begin to itch, so decided I’d better mow it.
Who would have thought after rearing four teenagers the thing that nearly broke us was a lawnmower?
I took out the petrol... he followed.
I pulled out the lawnmower... he put in the petrol.
I stood back ready to go... he was still there.
“I know how to start it,” I lied.
“I’ll just go through it with you,” he said.
“I’m not stupid.”
‘I know. Look, you move this to here and...”
“I can do it. Go away,” I snapped.
He didn’t move and as I’d no clue how to start it or make it move, I had to get rid of him.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll start it and with any luck run you over.”
With a hearty laugh, he left. I began pulling on the starter wire, again and again.
I swear I lost at least six pounds before that stupid machine finally roared into action, taking off at top speed... straight into the shed.
Losing another six pounds I restarted it, this time pointing it towards the garden. We took off, I running after it at Olympic medal pace, a pasted smile on my face in case yer man was watching.
Later, as I lay in a heap reeking of grass, I did a quick audit and concluded that, in my opinion, the accounts in our house were perfectly balanced.
Judging by yer man’s disapproving face at the unprofessional result of my mowing I suspect he’d also agree.
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