X AND Y

This one time, my fella was getting ready play touch. He hadn't played touch in goodness knows how many months. But it was a bloke thing, the guys were keen, there was beer at the end of it and, well, you know the rest.

He went to the back of his garage, got his sports bag and brought it back into the house. He unzipped it, looked perplexed at its contents, then stuck his nose right down into it for a smell.

"Eeeewwwwwwwwwwww!" was his resounding reaction. You see, it still contained the remnants of his last touch football game and, judging by his reaction, these remnants had evolved and taken on a life force of their own.

"Hey sweetie," he calls, "come over here and have a smell of this."

"You are disgusting," I said, not bothering to hit the pause button on Episode 4, Season 2 of Sex and the City. "And take that stinky bag out of the kitchen."

Undeterred, he ventured further into the house where the boys were waiting for him. "Hey fellas, you gotta have a smell of this!"

And I kid you not, one by one they all stuck their noses in the offending bag, all with similar reactions. And oh how they bonded over it.

Now, I won't even take my shoes off in the presence of anyone except my dog. But that's because I once found him getting cosy with a rat that had met a gruesome end in the corner of my yard. That dog is up for anything.

A visit to the lavatory is executed with military precision to ensure no observers. I am almost tempted to run a census of my immediate neighbourhood to gauge awareness levels and the number of open windows.

I shower at the gym to make my homecoming that little bit sweeter. I shy from morning kisses in case too many vinos from last night shine through.

That's the difference between women and men. He'll mow the lawn and come in all sweaty and filthy and think he's a contender for the next Lynx commercial. I haven't washed my hair since yesterday morning and don't like him smelling it when he cuddles me. "Ooh, get away from me, I stink."

To be fair, not all men are the same. I mean, they have different faces so the women can tell them apart. They don't see it as a beer gut; they see it as a fuel tank for a love machine.

This fellow has framed every rugby league jersey he's ever worn. In his defence he was a premier league player in his youth but for God's sake, he's in his mid-40s now! He once wanted me to move in with him but he made it clear that not one of those suckers were coming down from the walls to make way for my tastefully framed Renoir prints and hand-drawn charcoal sketches of the Trevi Fountain.

Just as I couldn't get him to relocate his New York Yankees yard glass or collection of poker chips from that time he played a hand in Las Vegas.

Needless to say I'm still living at my place.

Probably because when we were having these early co-habitating discussions, I went through his house and addressed his furniture like an airhostess does at the end each flight. Bye-bye. Bye-bye ...

The penis should never have its own name. Even less its own personality. This isn't Princess Diana and her marriage to Charlie. There aren't three people in this relationship thereby making it a bit crowded.

Maybe Ms Bobbitt lopped it off because she grew fractious about constant referrals to "Big John" or "Donald Pump". And if that was indeed the case, she has my instantaneous sympathy.

When I was growing up, my dad agonised each morning over what tie he should wear with his suit. He'd seek counsel from my mother and she'd reply with a flippant "the one in your left hand" whilst never averting her eyes from frying eggs and buttering toast.

I used to think that she was heartless, even mean. Until I got married. And realised that my husband was doing the same thing to me and I too was caught in the neck-wear decision vortex.

What would men be without women?

Scarce.

What would women be without men?

Fat.