Kayt Turner: Nippy sweetie

IT'S not often that I hear approving noises from Mr Turner when he's reading the paper of a morning. Mostly he sounds like some retired high court judge. If you thought that harrumphing went out with the Famous Five and ration books, then think again. It's alive and well at Turner Towers.

The reason he was so happy was that he was reading about the Perfect Wife. I told him he didn't need to read about it, he had one right in front of him. In response to his disbelieving gaze, I started to give all the reasons that he was lucky to have me. The limited space I have in this column prevents me from listing all the many, many benefits that he landed himself when we got hitched.

"Oh really?" he says. "Let's see how you do in the Wife Test."

I don't need to do any Wife Test, I said, I think I do all right, thank you very much. Let me count just some of the ways.

I fully understand – nay, insist – that if you can't actually get to the football, then you should always watch it live, standing at the bar with a pint in your hand. I too thought it essential that we extend our Sky package for the Ryder Cup. I can appreciate, if not immediately tell, the differences between cars. I even have fixture lists in my diary for football, golf, Formula One and fight nights. He doesn't do too badly being married to me.

But Mr Turner was insistent that we went over the test as printed in his English mid-market tabloid. Bring it on, said I.

"Does your wife sew on buttons and darn your socks regularly?" I couldn't answer that because I was laughing too hard. "Does your wife dress for breakfast?" I happen to think my joggers and fleece are perfectly acceptable morning attire. "Does your wife put her cold feet on you in bed?" How else am I meant to get them warm? "Does your wife have meals ready on time?" We both just laughed at that – I haven't cooked for more than 20 years, and I'm not about to start now. "Does your wife always make up after an argument and never go to bed angry?" Of course I never go to bed angry. I will – in the words of Katharine Hepburn – stay up and fight until dawn if necessary. "Does your wife ask your opinion before making important decisions and purchases?" I couldn't answer that one either. I was signing for a delivery at the front door.

Adding up my merits (not many, frankly) and demerits (far, far too many to mention) it would appear that I am a very poor wife indeed. And so I tried the adoring wifey thing when Mr Turner and I went out for dinner.

I brought my husband his drink. I deferred to him in conversation. I answered our hosts' questions (who are you and what have you done with the real Kayt?) in quiet, soothing tones. I sipped slowly from my wine glass and asked if he was comfortable. I volunteered to hand round the nibbles – offering them to Mr Turner first, of course. It lasted all of 20 minutes before he exploded and demanded that I "just go back to being normal – this is freaking me out".

Being a good little wifey, I immediately acquiesced to my wise and all-knowing husband.

Thank goodness. I had fluttered my eyes so much I was in danger of giving myself epilepsy.