THE clematis hanging down from the porch outside our front door was out of control. In fact, it had grown so wild there was a danger that the paperboy might be lost in there.

I’d left it for as long as I could but there was no sign of my wife cutting it so I decided I’d better step up to the task. “I’m going to chop that clematis back,” I announced.

“No, leave it – you’ll do it wrong,” she replied. Yes, there’s a recurring theme here, isn’t there? Just like I couldn’t be trusted to butter bread – because I’d do it wrong. And like I couldn’t be trusted to microwave the sweetcorn – because I’d do it wrong.

I could understand not being trusted with The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, but our clematis isn’t one of the seven wonders of the world. It just needed hacking back.

“What do you mean, I’ll do it wrong?” I asked.

“You won’t cut it right – and you know what happens when you try to cut the ivy,” she said.

It was a blow below the belt. OK, it’s true that my record at cutting the ivy that climbs up the wall on the side of the house isn’t that good but anyone can sever a TV satellite cable when it’s covered in foliage.

And, yes, on another occasion, I was puzzled about why the hedge-trimmer had suddenly stopped working, only to discover to my horror that I’d cut through the cable. But, hey, our handyman neighbour, John, fixed in no time, so what’s the big deal?

Anyway, my wife had made her mind up – if anyone was going to cut the clematis, it was going to be her. To be fair, she was true to her word at the weekend. Come Sunday morning, once she’d got the lunch going, she was up on the step ladders, cutting away.

Given how much clematis there was to get rid of, she was back inside surprisingly quickly.

“Have you finished?” I asked.

“No,” she said, curtly, “the hedge-trimmer isn’t working.” I sensed something in her demeanour. It was the way she couldn’t look me in the eye and busied herself in the kitchen that made me feel the need to investigate.

I got up to go outside and found the hedge-trimmers shoved in the corner in the hall. My heart leapt with a little surge of joy as I saw that the cable had been cut.

Barely able to contain my happiness, I went back into the kitchen and asked: “Have you cut through the cable?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

I could easily have gloated but I didn’t. I just told my wife that I was popping next door to get the hedge-trimmer fixed.

“Oh, you haven’t done it again?” sighed John.

“Not me, John. It was the missus!”

We high-fived. Then we hugged. No more words were needed.

OUT OF TUNE

A PRESS release arrived the other day from a PR company representing Superdrug.

It annoyed me right from the start with its overly chummy introduction: “Hey, hope you’re well. Superdrug has launched the world’s first-ever ‘sexercise’ music track designed to sync perfectly with calorie-burning sex sessions and encourage couples to work up a sweat between the sheets, and to help them improve their fitness levels.”

It went on to claim that “the music was developed by a fitness expert and music producer after analysing the bedroom habits of 2,000 British couples”.

Oh, and wait for it...“The track lasts for 22 minutes 48 seconds to complement the average length of a UK sex session.”

I threw it in the bin. I’ve been married 26 years – I’d be happy to make it through a jingle.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THANKS to Heather Ross, on Twitter, who told me about Oliver, aged seven, announcing: “Do you want to know what I know about girls?”

When Heather replied that she would like to know, he said: “They like perfume for Christmas.”

And thanks to Sue Thompson, of Catch Designs, Stokesley, who was a little alarmed when her little boy, Archie, asked: “What’s a quickie?”

Imagine her relief when she discovered he was reading a cookery book and the word he didn’t recognise was “quiche”.

MEANWHILE, Nigel Dowson, of Cockfield, told me how he came downstairs to discover toys all over the floor.

“Who’s made all this mess?” he asked.

Without hesitation, two-year-old grandson Blake piped up: “It was Nana.”