OVER 29 years of marriage, I’ve learned to fear the dog-house. Inevitably, I’ve spent a fair amount of time in there and, to be absolutely fair to my wife, it’s usually been well deserved.

Like the time I lost my wedding ring. I suddenly realised it wasn’t on my finger and I remembered with horror that I’d hid it in my shoe when I’d got changed for a football match a few days previously. That was the last time I saw it. God knows where it ended up. All I know is that the dog-house was particularly chilly that week.

Oh, and the time I was mowing the grass, accidentally punctured the kids’ inflatable swimming pool, and tried to cover it up with electrician’s tape without owning up. I wanted to confess but couldn’t find the courage and, once I was rumbled, the dog-house door swung open wide.

Yes, and the time I fell asleep overnight on our brand new red leather settee and a black pen in my trousers leaked all over it. I was in that dog-house longer than Steve McQueen spent in solitary confinement during The Great Escape. I didn’t even have a ball to throw against the wall.

These are just three of many examples and the net result is that I’ve come to exist in a natural state of “Barronoia” - forever concerned that I might be in trouble, even when I’m not.

These days my wife and I work together at home, often at opposite ends of the dining room table. I’ve discovered that she talks to her computer a lot and, I’ll be honest, it scares me.

The other day, I was walking in the room and she shouted: “Oh, come on, you useless, good for nothing, waste of space. I hate you.”

“What have I done?” I asked, instinctively.

“I’m talking to my laptop,” she groaned.

Another time, I heard her say: “That’s it. You’re old, you’re slow, you don’t do what I want anymore and I’ve had enough.”

Again, I felt an initial surge of panic that she was talking to me and that I was about to be replaced by a younger, more responsive model.

Last week, her laptop had a major malfunction which meant she couldn’t sent any emails for days. They were stuck in her outbox. Consequently, the computer got some serious verbal abuse and, each time, my brain was conditioned into thinking the target was me.

She went to see a man in town to sort her out but, as I write this, the laptop is still languishing in the doghouse.

That’s not good but it’s a blessed relief to keep discovering that it isn’t me…even if I am old, slow and not always sure what she wants anymore.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THANK you to Bill Bartle, of Barnard Castle, for sending a timely things they say…It came from a friend’s grandson who asked: “Dad, why is it that when something good happens Mum thanks God, but when something bad happens she blames you?”

And a few Christmas leftovers…

MICHAEL Dowson ‏got in touch to tell me how son Harry, three, of Shildon, wouldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve.

“We’ll phone Santa,” he was warned.

“Go on then, ring him in here," came the reply.

MUM-OF-TWO Becky Ketley got in touch from Newton Aycliffe to tell me how youngest son Daniel insisted on wearing his Santa hat when he was taken to the pub for a family meal.

They were sitting by an open fire and it was red hot so Becky asked Daniel if he wanted to take the hat off.

“No, I’m going to leave my hat on so everyone in the pub knows I’m celebrating Christmas,” came the reply.

ANOTHER time, Becky and husband Paul discovered Daniel had climbed into their bed and fallen fast asleep.

Paul carried the little boy into his own bed and Daniel wasn’t very happy the next morning, demanding to know who’d moved him because he’d been put into his own bed “the wrong way”.

He was asked what he meant and replied: "You put me down with my ear on the pillow!"

“How’s that wrong, Dan?” his puzzled dad asked.

“There are dreams in my pillow and when my ear is on the pillow they go through my ear and into my brain and I don't like it," came the explanation with five-year-old logic.