How to be a Husband (7 page)

The classic example used to demonstrate the benefits of comparative advantage, set forth by the economist David Ricardo in 1821, is the manufacture of wine and wool in Portugal and England. Portugal can make wine much more efficiently than England, so it makes sense to trade it for English wool, but even if Portugal can also produce wool more efficiently, it still makes sense to specialize in wine, as long as the comparative advantage in winemaking is bigger than the one for wool production.

There are a few problems with this system. You can be good at something and still really hate it—I can't imagine that being better at ironing would make me like it more—which means that the efficiency gained from chore specialization may not outweigh the accrued resentment. Male domestic inefficiency is often willful, and rarely reflects a genuine lack of aptitude. How long can you stay terrible at doing the washing up? Unless you're really trying not to, wouldn't you eventually get the hang of it? I'm living proof that through sheer dogged repetition a man can halve the time it takes him to put a cover on a duvet. Finally, comparative advantage cannot, by itself, erase the gender gap in housework. Maximum efficiency is not the same as fairness.

I did not, it must be said, bring a great number of comparative advantages to the domestic sphere. I'm perfectly willing to admit that I only do a third of the housework because, frankly, that statistic sounds a bit generous to me. What's even more shameful is that I'm home all the time, so any housework that is not done by me has to be done around me.

While I like to think I make a significant contribution, I don't imagine the Househusbands Union would be too kindly disposed toward my application. I only really use the Hoover after I've caused a catastrophic spill I don't want anyone to know about. There are certain forms of cleaning—dusting, for example—that I have never in my life engaged in. Like many men, my biggest contribution to housework reduction is that I've managed to lower the bar for cleanliness. But I'm glad I haven't had more influence here. I know what the house would look like if I were solely in charge of its cleaning. It would look like my
office. My office looks like a compulsive hoarder's box room, the sort of place you might expect to find a skeleton in a bathrobe holding a copy of the
Radio Times
from December 2007.

Just remember what I said at the outset: this is not a self-help book. Do not be like me.

3.
Dealing with people who come to the door.
This is generally the task of whichever of you is foolish enough to open the door in the first place, but because I work from home, in our house it falls almost exclusively to me. In fact my entire daytime social circle is composed of Jehovah's Witnesses, fish sellers from Newcastle, postmen with packages for next door, charity muggers holding clipboards, and reformed criminals selling dustcloths.

I would like to be able to say that over the years I have developed a flair for deflecting a pushy sales pitch or being polite but firm with people who would attempt to save my immortal soul while my coffee gets cold. The truth is I am abrupt and susceptible by turns. I was once so comprehensively dismissive of an ex-convict who wanted to charge me six quid for a lint roller that he was moved to shit on my doorstep, an act which doubtless set his rehabilitation back months. And yet I have also been known to agree to switch gas suppliers in order to get someone to go away before
Bargain Hunt
starts.

Even if I perform this particular labor brilliantly, I have nothing to show for it. When my wife comes home in the evening and asks me how my day was I do not say, “Today I dodged a freezer full of plaice and once again managed not to change broadband providers.” But on those occasions when I am less than 100 percent successful, I am inevitably obliged to own up.
“Today,” I have to say, “I gave a con artist ten pounds for a sponsored walk he is never going to do, and then bought three months' worth of organic vegetable boxes from a pretty lady.”

4.
Paperwork and administration.
It seems to me that this particular chore should be taken on by one person, because two people chipping in will only lead to confusion. But a marital home requires a preposterous amount of record-keeping, which is probably too much for one person to handle.

My wife rules over this sphere, because she's organized, although she lacks my ability to panic, and one of her chief organizational skills is throwing important paperwork away. I may be disorganized, but every bit of paper that has ever entered my office is still in there somewhere, and I can locate anything within a fortnight. In principle this mix of efficiency and hoarding should mean we're covered. In practice it means I shouted at her for binning a tax demand last week, and I've just found it under my desk.

5.
Cooking.
Some people possess both a talent for cooking and an ability to derive pleasure from exercising their skills to feed others. Whenever possible you should try to include such a person in your holiday plans, whether you enjoy that person's company or not.

But it's not uncommon to marry someone for love alone, even if that someone can't cook at all. My wife did, and so did I. Almost everything we know about cooking, we learned together, through a series of hideous culinary accidents.

Although I am normally reluctant to pass judgment on people's abilities or priorities, I will say this: not being able to cook is stupid. It just isn't that hard. You can even continue to dislike
cooking, provided you learn to produce a palatable meal that can be thrown together using ingredients from the store cupboard or the corner shop in under an hour, and ends with the kitchen as clean as when you started. Then learn another one. Then learn . . . actually, two will probably do it, to be honest.

My wife and I pooled what little knowledge we had, and between us we developed a repertoire that spanned a seven-day meal cycle, if you included a takeaway on Sunday. These are not recipes as such, just dishes that have evolved over years of trial and error, including one which is simply called “Mexican” (it is not remotely Mexican, but it does call for four tins of refried beans), and a weird, paprika-tinged collection of odds and ends which in our house is known, with no great affection, as Spicy Ricey.
*
These two meals still remain in the rotation after fifteen years, but they are rarely served to outsiders.

Dinner parties are a different matter.

“I hate having dinner parties,” says my wife.

“You're not supposed to say that while everyone's still here,” I say, indicating our guests.

When we were first married there were only three requirements for a successful dinner party: a big ashtray, a bottle of wine per person, and a nearby shop that would sell you more
wine after eleven p.m. The food was always, thankfully, an afterthought. Over the years, however, we grew weary of presenting meals we had to apologize for. We bought cookbooks, we took some culinary risks, and we learned to show off a little. At some point I even discovered a recipe for chocolate éclairs shaped like swans, but I've only ever made them for people twice, and I was drunk both times. You have to be a bit drunk to think it's a good idea.

6.
Driving.
My wife and I have split this chore across national boundaries: when we're going somewhere in the car together, I drive only in America and on the Continent. The right side of the road is my domain. My wife is a very good driver, but she's not a great passenger; she refuses to accept that it is, by definition, a subordinate position. I, on the other hand, am an excellent passenger, which is just as well, because my wife has certain esthetic objections to my driving which she feels unable to keep to herself when I am at the wheel. This particular division of labor suits us both, although I am aware that it is unusual (apparently, when partners get in the car together, the man is four times more likely to drive) and I know that even if it doesn't feel particularly emasculating, it probably looks a little emasculating.

The only time I ever minded was on long car journeys with three children fighting in the back. As the free-handed passenger seat occupant, all in-car discipline fell to me, and as everybody with small children knows, there is no such thing as in-car discipline. Most of these trips adhered to a similar template:

“Make them stop fighting,” says my wife.

“Right!” I say. “If you don't stop right now someone is
getting out.” It's my only in-car sanction—the out-car option. I've issued it countless times, without once following through on it. The only person I've ever met who actually left a child by the roadside was my mother.

“Dad is very angry,” my wife says into the rearview mirror. “He's going to do something in a minute.” The fighting does not even pause.

“Right,” I say, wheeling round to point at the middle one. “You're getting out.” He begins to laugh uncontrollably.

“Pull over,” I say to my wife.

“I'm not pulling over,” she says. “The traffic's only just started moving.”

“If you want me to discipline them, you need to back up my hollow threats.”

“We're late as it is,” she says.

“I've run out of ideas,” I say. “You discipline them.”

“I can't,” she says, “I'm driving.” She's trying—preposterously—to make driving sound like the more unenviable chore. She might as well say, “I can't—I'm queuing for another go on the Ferris wheel.”

“Pull over, and I'll drive,” I say.

“Oh no, you won't,” she says. The fighting in the back has turned nasty; the younger two are reaching across the older one to punch each other.

“Then pull over,” I say, “and let me out here.”

7.
Shutting down.
I am the person who runs through the nightly checklist that puts our house to bed: front door double-locked, front window bolted, old dog offered option of last-minute piss, garden door locked, lights out, taps closed, TV off,
dishwasher on, fridge door shut, children asleep, kitchen demonstrably not on fire. It's not difficult, but it's a tremendous responsibility which I am pleased to assume. I only resent the reporting procedure that follows.

“Is the front door locked?” says my wife.

“Yes,” I say.

“What about the garden door?”

“Yes,” I say. It's good she has the checklist in her head, because she will have to take over the role if I die, but still.

“Are the children all asleep?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“Are the lights in the kitchen . . .”

“I do all of these things,” I say. “Every time.”

“Except for last week, when you left two gas rings burning all night.”

“That was not my fault,” I say. “And I'll be right back.”

8.
Standards enforcement.
At some point you must decide whether, as a marital unit, you comprise the sort of people who bother to put sugar in a bowl, or butter on a dish, or tea bags in a dedicated earthenware container that says “
TEA
” on the front. You must set a standard for the lowest form of cheese allowed in your fridge, and an agreed method for making coffee. Do you care whether your car is clean, or do you use it as a mobile skip? Do you mind being a couple known for turning up late to everything? Are you minimalists? Are dogs allowed on your sofas? Is smoking allowed in your kitchen? Do you make people take their shoes off when they visit? Does a guitar on a stand count as furniture?

Our own standards—a loose mix of esthetic obstinacy,
misguided principle, family tradition, resistance to change, latent snobbery, and squeamishness—were reached by consensus over a number of years, although enforcement is generally undertaken by the person who in each case actually gives a shit one way or the other. My wife is the one who makes sure there are no potted plants in the house. It is only at my insistence that we do not pour sugar into our tea straight from the bag, even though I don't take sugar, or tea.

From time to time household standards must be revised, either because of natural slippage, changes in taste, or a feeling that you've both reached an age where it's unacceptable to drink wine from old Nutella jars. Generally speaking, the fewer standards you can get away with maintaining, the better. After your tenth wedding anniversary, you should try to rid yourself of a couple every year.

9.
Finding things.
You may think the world is simply divided into finders and losers, but these roles are more often thrust upon us by the people we live with. I'm not a natural finder. It's only my wife's bottomless capacity to make stuff go missing that has forced me to become observant, methodical, and at ease going through the bins with a pair of Marigolds on. Most of all, I have become psychologically astute—you have to teach yourself to think like someone who wasn't thinking.

10.
Speaking to tradespersons.
This is my job, but it's not because I'm good at it. When I converse with plumbers or electricians I'm always desperate to make it sound as if I have a basic grounding in the mechanics of their profession. I never ask any pertinent questions, for fear of sounding stupid. Instead I nod grimly, misuse jargon, and offer my own fanciful suggestions
regarding the nature of the problem, all of which contributes to making me a very easy person to rip off. My wife, on the other hand, makes no pretense of understanding anything. She treats the field of heating engineering as if it were a branch of witchcraft, and all its certified practitioners with naked suspicion. She really should take over the role, but she's almost never home when these people turn up.

11.
New stuff.
From time to time, while wrestling with a malfunctioning or outmoded kitchen tool, I will look up and say, with exasperation, “We really need a new one of these.” I say this because it is not my job to decide that a new thing is required, or to secure that new thing. It's my wife's job. This is probably left over from the early days when she had all the money, but I have to come to accept that this responsibility should remain hers. I know how much regret a poor or unnecessary purchase can cause, and I want that regret to belong to someone else.