Declutter: (v) from the Old English, Nordic, German and every other language on the earth. The act of mature females deliberately acting with malice aforethought to give their husband the Edgars.

I don’t know if other mature women are like The Lioness when it comes to every once in a while going into artificial nesting mode. 

But, with some regularity, she decides to change the positions of various items of furniture, the pots and pans in the kitchen, putting the television at different angles​ and other idiosyncrasies.

I don’t know why she does it and I generally look on with amusement.

But just recently she took two weeks’ holidays, I thought to be with me during my sabbatical from the work place.

The first week was consumed with activities concerning the Spring Racing Carnival but I should have been suspicious when I caught her whispering into her phone.

A secret boyfriend or lover? 

No, it was much worse.

She was ordering a skip and a bin for the destruction of documents. 

In other words, my dreams of going fishing and on day trips was not going to eventuate.

Instead, we spent the whole week cleaning out the garage and my couple of offices in the house.

At one stage I thought I was going out with the rubbish when she asked me to jump into the skip to rearrange it and then promptly took away the ladder I had used to climb into it.

But she reluctantly replaced it and I was able to climb out, albeit shaking more than usual. On Thursday we celebrated (well, she did) 32 years of wedded bliss, so I guess we are used to being around each other.

Although sometimes I reckon she is a bit too comfortable in the relationship.

I recently heard a woman, who absolutely hates my guts, ask The Lioness why she would marry someone like me.

My dearly beloved replied: “Mum always told me to marry an ugly man because he would never leave me; but if he did then who cares”.

Thanks very much, darling.

On another occasion I heard her tell one of her mates that in winter she was always in bed with a cup of Milo and watching the footy by 8pm. “But my husband is usually up Dean Street until 2am, chasing young women”. 

Not at all, I was merely doing a bit of research for my weekly column. 

And would it have hurt her to sound a little like a woman scorned?

The situation being made even less palatable by the fact there’s nothing worse than getting all of the pain (represented by her false accusation) and none of the pleasure (read between the lines if you can’t understand what I’m saying there).

I am envious of those people who are comfortable with their own company and don’t feel the need to always share their existence with other people.

Not me, I need other people around to keep me from being lonely, which I reckon is about the worst emotion a human can experience.

I feel very sorry for those people who have been in some sort of relationship that has broken up and they are forced back into the singles’ scene, often having to hang out with other people in the same situation.

So thanks honey for bringing that ladder back to the skip and deciding to keep me.

Love ya to the moon and back.