Wendyl Nissen: If hubby has his way, it'll be curtains for us

I am well used to my husband arriving home at the end of the day with some bizarre suggestion for how we could entertain ourselves that evening.

Sometimes it's a simple idea like watching Turk 182, an obscure movie from the 80s, or Lou Reed live in concert for the 80th time.

My husband has an aversion to mainstream television, which is how normal people spend their evenings and bond together as a family. If we're lucky he'll watch the news with us, and he might be persuaded to watch Coronation Street but only if we lie to him and say Gail is about to kill herself. He loathes Gail.

So when he sat down with purpose as I was grinding root turmeric (which I discovered has amazing healing properties on a recent trip to Indonesia), I was expecting any or all of the above.

"Craft night," he said. Just like that. No need for an enthusiastic screamer on the end like "Craft night!" or an adjective attached to imply impending doom like "Craft night," he intoned mysteriously.

"Craft night?" I responded, saying the same thing back to him. A technique I find useful when confused and bewildered.

"Yes, craft night," he said as if he was having to explain the meaning of the word 'boredom' to me all over again. "A night where we sit at the table and do crafts."

I gave the pounding a rest as I considered the possibility that during my absence he had indulged in a wild night on P or some other pharmaceutical and done himself some permanent brain damage.

My husband doesn't do crafts. He's not one of those men who knit quietly in the corner trying to pretend that they are having no effect on their own masculinity at all. Nor is he the kind of man to build ships in bottles, coffee tables out of matchsticks or whittle away on a piece of wood.

"You don't do crafts." I stated.

"No, but you do," he said, staring pointedly at the sewing machine which had been sitting on the kitchen table for seven weeks three days and four hours. "I could cook some biscuits or something and keep you company while you finish the curtains."

And there it was. The subject that must not be mentioned.

The fact that was seven weeks, three days and four hours before, I had embarked on my two-year cycle of making some curtains. All had gone well until I got to the fifth curtain and I just lost the urge.

I do this when I sew. My father is still waiting for the V neck, blue towelling shirt I promised to make for his birthday in 1974. I got to the V part and wandered off in search of something more interesting.

My mother begged me to sew on the other leg of a pair of blue trousers she was hoping to wear out on her birthday, in 1975, 1976 and 1977 before giving up after a brief flurry of begging in 1980.

Six lounge curtains have met the same fate as Mum's trousers and Dad's shirt and there is the small matter of three large, naked windows in the lounge which find themselves unable to hold in any heat on these cold winter nights.

"We've hung some blankets up," I was informed when I returned from 10 days of full sun and 30 degree heat in Indonesia. "I was concerned for our health."

"I am not sewing curtains tonight," I said with authority, returning to my pounding.

"Told you it wouldn't work," said my daughter, who quite likes the blankets-on-the-window look for its basic-functionality-meets-street-grunge, a description I think she got from watching Gok's Fashion Fix.

"What will it take?" he pleaded, rubbing his freezing hands together and shaking like a leaf.

"They'll be finished when they're finished," I said, attempting unsuccessfully to wrap bits of fish and turmeric spice paste in banana leaves and secure it all with toothpicks, Indonesian style.

He's signed up for a night class on scrapbooking. He says it's nice and warm there.