Trousers

Lucy’s column for June 3
Marilo…1
The old man’s trouser hems are, more often than not, held up with Sellotape. I’ve never darned a sock in my life. And if a shirt button drops off, it’s tough if the garment is any other colour than black or white. That’s the extent of the cotton-reel colour co-ordination in our sewing basket.
Oh yes, I’ve got one of those, given to me by somebody not quite right in the head, obviously, and handed over more in hope and anticipation than suitability to this recipient. It contains two needles – one with a big eye, one with a little one – and a pair of scissors which wouldn’t cut melted butter.
Apparently, this darning and button-stitching is all part and parcel of the attributes needed to be a "perfect wife", taken from a questionnaire dreamed up by a marriage guidance counsellor. Circa 1939, I hasten to add. And it goes without saying that the counsellor was a man, Dr George Crane. It was devised to enable men to gauge whether they had chosen a "superior" wife, by allocating plus and minus points to different types of behaviour.
This wonder-woman never wears face cream in bed, red nail polish, criticises his driving, but can play the piano like an angel. Points were deducted from wives who didn’t have a meal on the table the minute he came home from work, had wonky stocking seams, and were "slow in coming to bed". And she must never, but never, have breakfast in her nightie.
I daren’t go on because even in this short look at the housewifely virtues, or otherwise, I’m definitely in the "otherwise" category. And not just in the clean frilly pinny and neat housekeeping department. I reckon I fall flat in the cherish-him stakes, too, because I’m none too sympathetic when it comes to man flu, that self-inflicted hangover, or his current whinge – his sciatica. What better cure for a gammy leg than a couple of days clearing up our blinkin’ garden?
How come there is no Marital Rating Scale – because that’s what this downright cheeky check list is called – for men? Oh, he may have an ongoing love-affair with the Dyson, but only providing there isn’t the inconvenience of a sofa or table to interrupt its flow, and on the odd occasion I’ve begged him to do the spuds, there’s more potato in the peelings than in the pan. After nearly 40 years together, I’ve yet to discover the "new man" the younger generation talk of – the one who cooks, can work a dishwasher, undo the buttons on a wash-basket shirt, pour a gin and tonic.
It’s 11 am. I’m still in my dressing gown. And blow it, I’m going to paint my nails scarlet. Truth is, he won’t even notice.
End
Eyeslo..1
Readers Barbara Parkinson and Ann Smith have taken me to task recently in Opinion about my comments on my cataracts operation. As I said, the last thing I wanted was to put off would-be patients, such is the relief and joy of this "second sight". As usual with the much-maligned NHS, I was fulsome in my praise of the expertise and kindness of staff at the eye clinic, and made it clear that the actual operation was a doddle.
But the injection cannot be couched in comforting terms, and I’d be failing in my journalistic duty if I made it appear that way.

My dear friend Joyce Palin, who’s also had the op, went so far as to call me a mard a*** ! Not so reader Kevin Butler of Starkholmes. He may be able to see Riber Castle clearly now, but he suffered nightmares for weeks. However, he went on to have the other eye done. And guess what, folks, I’m about to do the same.
end