He is rubbish

I don’t remember actually defining our domestic roles, they just sort of evolved; I do everything related to food, and hubby is responsible for rubbish.

My first clue that food would fall under my realm was early on in our relationship when I asked him to make coffee. Keen to impress, he said yes without hesitation and shuffled off to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later and there was still no sign of coffee, just a slightly warm plastic odour. Getting antsy for my morning dose of caffeine, I peeked at the machine and noticed that it was on, but there was no water. Hhhmm, either this was calculated or he was really trying to navigate un-chartered waters.

After that, he stuck to rubbish, which extends to anything I don’t want to deal with; emptying the stinky nappy bin, carrying our overflowing bags of rubbish out on a frosty morning so we don’t miss pickup, trekking to the compost heap at the end of the garden, even in spitting down rain (the indoor container fills up fast).

It also includes dealing with four-legged creatures, like the ones that made the compost heap their four-star winter accommodation, keeping warm and dry in the bottom and burrowing tunnels to the top when they were hungry to munch on things like rotten bananas and decaying melon rind.

Hubby has sterling rubbish credentials. While he was earning his PhD he worked at Wimbledon in the summer for pocket money. One of his responsibilities was clearing up the plastic containers that had previously held someone’s strawberries and cream or Pimms. (He tells me this was the less glamorous part of the job — the best part was spying on players like Boris Becker and Chrissy Evert as he waited patiently for rain so he could help to pull the tarp over the court.)

I think I have the better end of the stick, as my job involves all kinds of nice things, like the smell of baking chocolate wafting through the house on an autumn afternoon, therapeutic vegetable chopping, and dashing out to the garden to get a handful of mint to put in the couscous.

I won’t mention those late-night runs to Tesco when we are out of soft butter and bread to make ham sandwiches for the packed lunches or the constant headache of trying to create a meal out of  whatever I can find at the back of the pantry. (Hhmmm, I wonder if they would eat a tin of canelli beans mixed with tuna and what’s left of the giant Costco-sized artichokes and fusili??)

Sexist? Definitely. Do I want to swap? No thanks. I’ll stick with our arrangement. I don’t mind being food, and I really don’t want to be rubbish.

Photo credit: bright