I'm pretty confident the house no longer smells of dogs and old men either.
OPINION
"Give the house an airing. It smells of dogs and old men."
Certainly not the comment I was expecting from my beloved through the driver's side window as she set off for yet another stint of Nana duty out of town.
Occasionally such departures are a chance for, shall we say, a fond farewell, which basically means a film star snog followed by a smile I will never tire of which suggests cards played correctly may result in a continuation of such activity upon one's return. Ahem.
But not this time.
Life had got in the way and the emergency nature of the travel required meant one of us would be left behind to look after all the everyday things that need doing around the house.
I was reminded of such tasks as I followed Mrs P out to the car with her bag.
The team of Sherpas I usually hire for such occasions had already taken the other 473 bags out and loaded them into the back of the trusty RAV4.
And so there I was, mentally planning when to do the vacuuming, the washing, the dishes, picking up dog poo from the back lawn etc when she added another unexpected job. Just as she reversed down the driveway.
"Give the house an airing. It smells of dogs and old men."
Now I can't speak for George The Dog, but It would be fair to say I took umbrage at such a suggestion, particularly as I was the only man residing in the house and while I may straddle the line between middle-aged and old – depending on your perception of such ages – I don't consider myself an old man.
I'm pretty sure I don't smell either. But I can't 100 per cent guarantee it.
The reason for that is I have no sense of smell. In fact, I'm not sure if I've ever actually had one.
I've done all the medical tests etc and basically it is what it is.
There are points for and against it.
On the plus side, I can't smell anything foul or disgusting. On the minus side, I tended to get blamed for lots of teenage boy things as my mates all stood there giggling, if you get my drift.
Unfortunately, it also means I can't smell anything nice. The fragrance of flowers, roast dinners and even the perfume Mrs P attempted to woo me with back in the day are essentially wasted on me.
Although, having said that, the perfume did make its presence felt when I gave her a little peck on a certain spot on the neck and thought my lips were going to burn off.
For you blokes among us who have no idea what I'm talking about (shame on you) it's the same sensation you got rubbing liniment on your knee at football training and then scratching your wotsits before you've wiped your hands clean. Got it?
Anyway.
All that aside, I was pretty peeved at her suggestion, throwaway line or not. And, as you do, I thought: "I'll show her".
The windows and doors would all be opened as wide as they could. The house would be like a wind tunnel, fresh air pouring in. And it was.
If I could've ripped the roof open to get more air circulating I would have.
Such was my commitment to the task I was in one of those indignant, not fully concentrating moods.
As I say, I'd show her. Not only would I get all the jobs done I'd also prepare dinner for her return.
And not just any dinner. I'd seen a recipe for a nice organic curry. All gluten-free to suit her diet. Yep.
This would be a culinary extravaganza. I'd even be fully organised and get it all underway and cooking while I went about my daily chores.
And I did.
Everything went super smoothly and I spent much of the day totally engrossed in my house-husband duties.
I aired the house, got the washing out, did all the dishes, picked up the dog poo off the back lawn, did the vacuuming ... you name it, I did it.
And when she came home later that night I was sitting there flat out exhausted on the couch but I could tell by the strange look on her face she was impressed.
I'm pretty confident the house no longer smells of dogs and old men either.
But I can't be sure it doesn't smell of the burnt remains of an organic curry stuck to the bottom of the saucepan I forgot was on the stove.