Dog days in a fastidious female household

This isn’t a cry for help. Rather, it’s recognition that abuse can creep up on even the most vigilant of us. Perhaps it’s because no-one thinks it can happen to them. Perhaps it’s unwillingness to face the hard truth, or because the escalation is so subtle, so insidious, that it slips by unnoticed. In my case, it took 34 years of marriage to realise that I had become what I feared most: the default suspect.

It may have something to do with the fact that, aside from our noble Swiss Shepherd, Gatsby, I’m the last remaining male in the house. Our four sons have flown the coop, married off and thriving, leaving me and Gatsby alone, holding the line for masculinity in a household now thoroughly reclaimed by the oestrogen army.

The consequences have been … dire.

The lamb disappearing off the kitchen counter? Clearly my fault.

Tennis balls strategically positioned for someone to trip over? Obviously Gatsby, or me, by extension.

Doors left open during a cold snap? If you guessed Howard, you’d be correct.

Missing Tupperware lids? That one’s still under investigation, but I’m currently out on bail.

The situation became so absurd, that this past Sunday morning, I decided to implement a star chart. A simple system: every time I’m unfairly blamed or subjected to a tone that would make a prison warden flinch, I give myself a star. Five stars earns me a gift, perhaps a chocolate, a short nap, or the sheer thrill of closing a cupboard without comment.

By lunchtime, I had amassed 13 stars. And no-one had even been home. I was being blamed by WhatsApp, by post-it notes, and by the ghost of accusations yet to come. At this rate, I’d need to dip into retirement savings just to keep up with the gifts. Clearly, the system needed recalibrating or I needed to move, along with Gatsby, into a kennel for some peace.

Now, I should be clear: I’m not without fault. I’ve left the milk and Butro out. I’ve neglected to pick wet towels off the floor. I’ve adjusted the air conditioner settings without written consent. But surely a man must be able to age with dignity?

This isn’t the home I envisioned. I thought I’d be spending my empty-nest years tweeting aggressive things in quiet contemplation, occasionally offering sage advice to my children over Sunday lunch. Instead, I’m apologising to house plants, hiding in the laundry with a Toblerone, and negotiating a peace treaty with the dog over shared blame for muddy pawprints.

Still, hope remains in what has to be a triumph of optimism over experience.

I’ve recently applied for minority status within the household, and am lobbying for male representation in household decisions. Gatsby has been nominated as my running mate. We’re campaigning on a platform of “Not Always Our Fault” and “Let the Dog Speak”.

If you see me wandering your neighbourhood, clutching a star chart and muttering about oven mittens, don’t worry, I’m fine. Just know that abuse wears many faces, and sometimes, one of them is holding a wooden spoon and asking, “Who left this on the counter?”