When I return from an illicit early evening visit to the pub, our four young children are lined up in height order in the hallway. Behind them is my wife, grinning and gesticulating as she orchestrates the theft of my briefcase, writes Mr Millard.

My father once told me that he dreamt of this kind of reception: “Good evening, Father. Have you had a nice day? Your slippers are by the fire.” That sort of thing.

Unfortunately, it’s always been my idea of hell.

As I am ushered into the living room, Rosie thrusts a gin and tonic into my hand with ice but, sadly, no lemon. Still, she is wearing a rather fetching dress, I note, and a fixed smile.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I find myself feeling a little flustered by all this sudden attention. What I really want is to be left alone to get on with making supper, as I normally do.

“No,” says Rosie, she’s already made it. I must stay put and relax. But doing what? I’ve already read the spots off the paper and I hate sitting down on the sofa because I automatically start to nod off.

As I sip my G&T, I reflect that I don’t really need a 1950s wife as I’m perfectly able to cook, wash up, clean, iron, tidy etc. What I really need is a partner, one (rather like Rosie) who can fix my computer, load my iPod and edit the family videos.

Finally, with an air of triumph, Rosie escorts me to the kitchen. She says I have to unload the dishwasher – the dutiful wife mask has begun to slip a little – and lay the table. Still, the kids have all gone meekly to their rooms and her coq au vin and plum pie taste wonderful. The washing-up appears to have been done in advance.

Give me time: I think I could get used to this.

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