Second Helpings

Nag, Nag, Nag.

There are certain areas of my home I try to avoid at all costs due to them being hijacked by hubby and so messy I’d need to take a bottle of tranquillisers before I dare face them. I take a deep breath twice a year and brace myself when I climb the ladder to the loft to fetch and return the decorations associated with a time of year I’d rather not mention, but that’s it. The loft is HIS domain and I avoid the five million model railway engines, loose wires, dusty track, odd pieces of carpet and multitude of junk boxes like the plague the rest of the time.

The same applies to the garage, the greenhouse, the man cupboards and the garden shed, but once a year I have to tackle the latter as the date of our summer party fast approaches. This year, the party will be tomorrow, so last week I decided the time had come to battle my way through the overgrown shrubs outside the shed, wrestle with the rusty lock and force myself past all the useless clutter inside to find the garden lamps, candles and other party necessities.

When I returned to the house, breathless, covered in cobwebs and with various cuts and bruises from wrestling with inanimate objects, I quietly mentioned to hubby that maybe it would be a good idea to give these places a good clear out before winter sets in. I don’t know why I bother as I think I’ve made the same request every summer since we’ve lived here, but it falls on deaf ears.

What happens then? I get accused of nagging.

What is it with women that as soon as they hear that word they tend to shrivel up, shut up and give up? Are the male of the species born with the ability to know if they call the female of the species a nag, they will be left in peace to be the untidy, messy and disorganised sods they are proud of being?

If I complain about the manpiles, the pot clanging, the snoring, the constant sport on television or the price of carrots I’m nagging. But if HE complains about dinner not being ready at precisely 6.30pm, the time I spend on the computer, my music, my friends or the price of carrots, it’s acceptable, reasonable and requires action.

I’m led to believe the origin of the word ‘nag’ comes from an old folklore tale, but I think most women associate it with the female term for a horse. Isn’t it about time we had an equivalent word to throw at men when they start complaining? So, what do we do? Adapt the term for a male horse to suit?

Anyway, I better get off the computer before he starts ‘stallioning’ and start cooking dinner for fear of him ‘studding.’ No, they just don’t have the same derogatory, insulting tone that ‘nagging’ does. I swear men still win every domestic battle with their ability to know exactly where it hurts, but you know me – never one to nag complain.