It's too hot for my wife to work.

I know I am going to regret it in two months or so, but I have to admit I stood up and applauded when the weather lady mentioned 'an approaching cold front' last night.

The problem with these conditions is that they make it close on impossible to get anything done. I just can't expect Mrs Ed to work in this heat, it’s boiling her brain.

I shouldn't be surprised:- The poor girl isn't getting any younger, and I think these over-thirty temperatures only make matters worse. But she gets so very cranky.

I'm not one to make excuses for bad behaviour - being the well-mannered, do-gooder that I am I seldom have to - but I'm finding that more and more often I'm having to explain Mrs Ed’s actions, sometimes to the point of acute embarrassment.

Take the other day when a couple of friends were round to watch the rugby. She was already all asweat and, for some reason, making that angry hissing noise through her teeth. Actually by that stage I was already having doubts about her sanity. Her behaviour earlier in the day had fuelled fears that she had succumbed to some sort of sun stroke.

It was a Saturday, so she had only had to work half day, though as usual she failed to see this as any sort of plus. (I have explained to her that as I only get out of bed at 10, and she's home by 1.30, it hardly feels like she's gone. I even waiver a bacon and egg breakfast - though by the time she has got back and cooked lunch I must say I am ravenous).

Anyway, this particular day I had eventually surfaced at 11ish, having granted myself a sleep-in on account of Mrs Ed waking me up at the crack of dawn with various noisy mutterings and moanings whilst she got ready for work. But instead of thinking of words to reprimand her for these selfish early-morning outbursts, I decided that I would rather be pro-active and do something to help her out of her ‘over-working’ predicament. Newly-weds please learn from this wisdom- I haven't been married this long without learning that you have to work at a marriage to make it a success - it's a give and take relationship.

So, remembering how she had been ranting and raving about all the things that needed doing around the house and that there wasn't enough hours in the day, and that if SOMEBODY got off his lazy BACKSIDE and DID SOMETHING (her emphasis, not mine - can you understand that I'm worried about her sanity?) her life might be just a little bit easier, I decided that perhaps I should knuckle down and get involved.

And that's exactly what I did. It wasn't easy, and the heat almost took its toll, but luckily there were a few bottles of 'Amber Nectar' chilling in the fridge, which helped. By the time Mrs Ed got home (shame;- the poor woman had that many armloads of shopping that she had to open the door with her teeth) I was lying exhausted on the couch, but at least I could show her the fruits of my labour.
“What's this?” she spluttered, untying the rolled up piece of bond paper (stained with my sweat I might add) that I had left on the kitchen table, delicately tied up with a bit of elastic I had pulled out from an old pair of boxer shorts (who says us men don't have any romantic flair?
“That,” I grinned proudly, “is the end of your stress. I've been working on it most of the morning.”

I patted the couch so that she could sit next to me whilst I explained. Somehow I knew that it was going to be one of those special moments that marriages are all too rarely blessed with.
“What I've done is created a spread-sheet of all the things you have to do, and allocated a time for each one,” I smiled, waiting for the penny to drop and hoping that she didn't want to hug me too tightly (she'd been in and out the car and, with the air conditioner not working, well let's just say she wasn't as er … 'As fresh' as I would have liked).

But she was still frowning in that way that makes her left and right eyebrows network with one another. I continued unabashed - perhaps in the heat she hadn't quite grasped the enormity of what I'd done for her.
“As you can see, even with the short water break I have allowed you after each task, AND the hour I've given you off to make supper, there actually ARE enough hours in the day, and if you stick to this schedule you'll be finished in time to watch the Desperate Housewives rerun after the late news! ”

She was looking down at the paper so intently I couldn't see her eyes. Hence I wasn't sure if the drops of liquid that fell onto the printed sheet were tears of joy or simply sweat from her ever-furrowing brow. No problem - I had done it on the lap-top so I could easily run off another copy.

But still no words of gratitude were forthcoming, so I decided to offer her the pièce de résistance. I could hardly contain my excitement.
“The best part is that if you shout to me as you finish each job, I can enter the exact time into the computer, and it will automatically work out how many hours you have left to work, and whether you are saving time or losing it. So we can work out next Saturday's timetable even more accurately. Isn't that fantastic?”

Perhaps she was overwhelmed by the technological implications, because she said nothing, choosing to stomp upstairs instead.
I called after her “I don't mind doing that you know…. entering the information… I really don't mind…” but she had already slammed the bedroom door. Can you fathom it?

Eventually she ventured out and set to her tasks like the stalwart that she is. Indeed when my mates came round later that day and I quickly checked her progress before we settled down to discuss that night's rugby, I was particularly impressed by what I saw. I sauntered over to the kitchen door, choosing not to go outside because it was really just too hot, and Mrs Ed would be able to hear me from where she was washing the car anyway.
“Well done my love,” I called out, “That's very impressive. You've not only caught up the half hour you wasted clearing the kitchen drain, but you are another twenty five minutes ahead of schedule!” She paused to rinse her sponge in the bucket of soapy water, staring at me rather blankly as I carried on excitedly.
“According to my time table you only have to start on the lawn at half five, and Bob says that if you wash his car in the meantime, he'll go out and buy another six pack of beer! Isn't that great?”

She says she slipped, but I'm not so sure that a mere 'slip' could propel a bucket of grimy brown water four metres through the air with such accuracy. My eyes are still stinging, and I don't know if I'll ever get the white back to ‘bright’ on my Stormers' support shirt.

“Eish pal,” reflected Bob when I staggered back into the house “That's one angry Vrou. Perhaps you were right, you DO need to send her in to see one of those mind doctors…”
“You know what?” I said, wondering if I would be able to ever watch rugby again as I desperately tried to rub the oily bits of grit out of my eyes.
“I'd be mad if I didn't!”