It's imperative that life's endless chores are divided fairly. We all have roles in a relationship. You make sure I never have to take out a bin and I'll make sure you never have to iron a shirt, writes Róisín Ingle
If the regime operates smoothly, both parties will be satisfied that the other is pulling their weight. If it doesn't, particularly in these double-income days, there will be rows. Doors may be slammed. Resentments may simmer.
At first glance it may appear that the division of labour in our house is grossly inequitable. But only at first glance. Sure, he does the washing, the vacuuming, the cleaning, the bread-baking, the squidgy-chocolate-double-cream-covered-cake-making and most other household jobs. But he is very good at them.
I, meanwhile, am the cook. I draw the line at baking, but I prepare an excellent dinner most evenings and occasionally do hot breakfasts at weekends. I will, on request, also rustle up a variety of sandwiches; Parma ham, baby spinach and vine tomato is a particular speciality at the moment. I can even do clever things with the exotic-looking vegetables that are delivered to the door. Pot Noodle I don't.
The other chores in my remit are not as easy to define. They cannot be judged by running a finger along the top of the telly for dust. If being resident cook weren't taxing enough, I am also the social secretary of our relationship. The ents officer of our little union. There are a lot of hidden duties in this role. Vast amounts of networking and paperwork. Serious, time-consuming research. Scanning magazines and newspapers for pleasant outings and interesting diversions. Booking restaurants. Buying cinema tickets. It really is all go.
Lately, I'd been feeling a little taken advantage of in this department. During a spare second in my busy schedule I began to get agitated about the imbalance. I couldn't remember the last time he had initiated a night or even an afternoon out. Obviously, I don't count the trip to the furniture megastore, which was totally his idea. And suggesting we go to the recycling centre together doesn't count either.
Although I have been known to at least attempt to work around the house, efficiently throwing the vacuum cleaner around the hall every so often, I realised that except for a period when he was trying to impress me when we met, five years ago, he has been happy to sit back and let me organise our social life.
The more I thought about it the more I was aggrieved. By the time he got home from work, and I laid a steaming plate of silky tricolour fusilli carbonara in front of him, I Wanted To Talk.
It started off gently enough, with me suggesting that perhaps once a month he could arrange a date for us. It needn't cost any money, I told him. We could go for a walk or a cycle or a game of snooker. I don't care, I told him, as long as the suggestion comes from you.
It wasn't long before this sensible adult conversation turned into a full-blown row. I think this was because I wanted him to come up on the spot with 10 potential activities, at least seven of which were so thoughtful that they illustrated the sincerity and depth of his feelings for me. In the event he said I was completely overreacting. It wasn't pretty.
A few days later - at my suggestion, naturally - we found ourselves on a romantic walk in a lovely seaside setting. It was perfect. Lapping water. Pale moon. The masts of ships looking ghostly in the docks.
We walked for a while in comfortable silence, but - and this may, I am willing to concede, be something of a personality defect - I wanted more. I wanted comments about the stars. Comments about love. Sweet nothings in my ear to make me feel adored.
After a few minutes he said: "I'm tired; let's go home." I didn't go home. I went to a nightclub and drank vodka and cranberry juice and thought to myself, this will show him.
It showed him nothing. The subject wasn't mentioned again. I went away for the weekend with my mother and forgot all about it. When I came home it was to what looked like a new house. Almost every item of domestic annoyance I had put on my Irritation List, from last week's column, had been fixed.
There was a new shower curtain. A newly organised jewellery box. The clothes rails and chest of drawers that had been cluttering up the study had been moved to another room. There was a new space for yoga. There were new candles.
Forget sweet nothings when I came home: there were sweet somethings almost everywhere you looked. Almost everywhere. When I checked I saw that our pet spider was still lurking daintily in a cobweb on the sitting-room ceiling.
You can't have it all, I suppose, but sometimes it can really feel as if you do.