My husband does ALL the chores – am I a terrible wife or the envy of every woman?

The electrician is coming tomorrow, I have to clean up, maybe the boys will help me,” my husband says sadly. I feel bad. He has a lot of work and is not feeling well. But as usual, he has prepared dinner: an excellent black bean chili.

He misses his weekly sailing course to devote his evening to housework. I’ve done some writing, swam at the local lido four times this week and tonight (albeit for work) I’m staying in a luxury hotel.

Our domestic arrangement is not the norm for a couple of fifty, even though you would think it would be. According to this year’s British Social Attitudes survey, 91 percent of Britons strongly disagree with the statement: ‘A man’s job is to earn money and a woman’s is to look after the house.’ And as many as 76 percent of heterosexual couples believe that laundry and ironing should be shared.

Yet somehow – so staggeringly – 63 percent of women say they do more than their fair share of housework.

It’s not like these modern maids have nothing else to do. In 1983, when the BSA survey began, the labor force participation rate among women aged 16 to 64 was only 54 percent. Now it is 72 percent. And the researchers report that maternal labor market participation has never been higher.

Many of these women work what social scientists call “a second shift,” where they take on most of the household and childcare duties in addition to a job. I’m not one of them.

It’s a constant battle to keep our house from falling into chaos, and I’ve gone bankrupt. All our sons (16, 18, 21) live at home, and if no one folds their laundry, the common areas become littered with piles of clothes, and it’s like a big garbage dump outside. Phil and I are both WFH, and don’t have a cleaner, on the principle that we’re not too big to clean our own bathroom. However, I’m too lazy. So he does it.

And it’s not just that I’m a handyman. His extreme hygiene standards are a goal of his own. Every now and then I’m embarrassed to half-heartedly wipe a cloth (the 16 year old texts to ask if the place is decent enough to bring back friends, i.e. other Lynx-infested teenage boys). But Phil ridicules my efforts. It’s discouraging. “Have you cleaned the bathroom?” he asks, shaking his head in sadness as he puts on his black rubber gloves.

The toilet seat is quickly removed and placed in a bath full of bleach. I think a dash of dish soap would be fine – we’re not that dirty. His conviction is: that is us. (Maybe there’s a reason for this. When he was little, his father added Dettol to his bath.)

I am now really allergic to cleaning. The arsenal of chemical weapons he uses to sterilize the shower essentially creates a mustard gas that burns my throat.

It’s possible that because I had to do my part as a child and polish our wooden parquet floors, I’ve rebelled ever since. When I was twenty, the flat I shared with friends was broken into. The police told me that my room had actually been turned over. In any case, the burglars had cleaned it up.

Meanwhile, because I hated the idea that a woman’s place was in the kitchen, I didn’t learn to cook until we had kids – they might say I still haven’t. I can make bolognese and tomato pasta, but not much else.

Phil started our marriage as a non-cook but has developed into a fantastic chef. He can prepare anything: bagels, custard tarts, curries, shepherd’s pie, empanadas, cheesecake, salmon en croute (always his own pastries, what do you take him for?).

But the less-than-stellar chef grew tired of her meals receiving a lukewarm response and stopped making “The Fish Dish” (fish, leek, Greek yogurt, cheddar) or “Thai” chicken. Phil picked up my slack. When he’s gone, I live on baked potatoes and the boys beg for Domino’s pizza.

I’m not completely silent. I do the online store, our bookkeeping (as in, I send them to our accountant), and laundry. Every now and then I shrink a beloved sweater of Phil’s to pepperpot size, or become disgusted by the dirty sock mountain and ignore it. Phil then buys more, worsening the problem.

Today he casually suggested, “Maybe we need a washer-dryer.” As if suggesting that my laundry load was so great that, despite my incessant toil, the excellent washer and dryer we already had were not sufficient to carry the laundry, rather than that I had – as we both knew – taken a break from being Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.

In 1983, when the BSA survey began, the labor force participation rate among women aged 16 to 64 was only 54 percent. Now it is 72 percent. Stock image used

Phil irons his own shirts. I don’t iron. And it’s so unusual for me to clean up that when I put the clothes away on the 18 year old’s bedroom floor (you couldn’t see the carpet), he assumed his older brother had done it.

As for that silly argument between couples over whose turn it is to take out the trash? Does not apply. Phil always does it, as I once squeezed my back to heave the bag into the trash.

He unclogs the sewer. He books all the holidays. I’m the only woman I know in my age group who isn’t stressed about Christmas, while Phil makes the cakes, packs the tree and buys half the presents.

I can’t even claim that I’ve borne the brunt of childcare. Phil and I had taken turns on play dates, trips to the park, and taking the boys to school.

To be fair, Phil is self-employed so can always be present and involved, but crucially he wanted to be. When the boys were little I worked during the holidays and Phil took them to castles, beaches and dungeons.

He drove them to countless cricket matches and managed their various sports teams. He helped them find their passion. One son is now studying architecture – thanks to Phil, who years ago saw his artistic potential and discovered that the Royal Institute of British Architects in London was organizing days off for 14-year-olds. Not something I had thought of.

Our children will probably confide in him as much as I do, because he is kind and wise.

Of course Phil isn’t perfect. Year after year I packed the kids’ lunches, but once I started traveling for work, the task fell to him. He made the rookie mistake of sending our youngest to his nut-free school with a peanut butter sandwich. I have received the complaint email, which I have forwarded.

Do I sound like a terrible woman? . . or an old-fashioned husband? I suspect that the younger generations are better at finding balance. Not a single 20-something woman I’ve met rushes to help clear the plates, which I grudgingly welcome.

Meanwhile, when Phil complains: ‘Don’t leave that tissue on the radiator, it’s going in the bin!’ – I’m trying to do better. (I must have put it there subconsciously because I was as surprised as he was.)

Like most men, he is unable to close a closet door or find his keys; I’m just helping. I’m also good at emotional support, more important than constant vacuuming.

Clearly, a domestic goddess was not what he was looking for. That said, 27 years of marriage, and despite being the worst baker in Britain, I have learned how to make Nigella’s lemon polenta cake, his favorite dessert. I’m improving.