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

• UK writer Anna Maxted details how her husband Phil takes care of the chores 
• READ MORE: Study shows women do 70 minutes more housework each day than men

The electrician’s coming tomorrow, I’ve got to tidy up — maybe the boys will help me,’ says my husband mournfully. I feel bad. He has a lot of work on, and isn’t feeling well. Yet, as usual, he’s made dinner — an excellent black bean chilli.

He’s missing his weekly sailing course to devote his evening to housewifery. I’ve done a little writing, swum at the local lido four times this week, and tonight (albeit for work) am staying at a luxury hotel.

Our domestic arrangement isn’t the norm for a fiftysomething couple, though you’d think it would be. According to this year’s British Social Attitudes survey, 91 per cent of Brits earnestly disagree with the statement, ‘A man’s job is to earn money and a woman’s is to look after the home.’ And an impressive 76 per cent of heterosexual couples believe the washing and ironing should be shared.

Yet, somehow — so very baffling — 63 per cent of women say they do more than their fair share of housework.

It’s not as though these modern-day housemaids have nothing else to do. In 1983, when the BSA survey began, the employment rate for females aged 16-64 was just 54 per cent. Now it’s 72 per cent. And the researchers report that the participation of mothers in the labour market has never been higher.

UK writer Anna Maxted, pictured, details how her husband Phil takes care of all the household chores

Many of these women are doing what social scientists call ‘a second shift’, shouldering most domestic and childcare duties, as well as a job. I’m not one of them.

Keeping our house from descending into chaos is a continuous battle, and I’ve gone AWOL. All our sons (16, 18, 21) are living at home, and if no one folds away their laundry, common areas become strewn with piles of clothes, and it’s like a vast outdoor rubbish tip. Phil and I both WFH, and don’t have a cleaner, on the principle that we’re not too grand to clean our own bathroom. I am too lazy, though. So he does it.

And it’s not only that I’m a chore-shirker. His extreme standards of hygiene are an own goal. On occasion, I’m shamed into half-heartedly wiping a cloth around (the 16-year-old texts to ask if the place is tidy enough for him to bring back friends, i.e. other Lynx-ridden teenage boys). But Phil ridicules my efforts. It’s disincentivising. ‘Did you clean the bathroom?’ he asks, head shaking in sorrow as he snaps on his black rubber gloves.

The toilet seat is swiftly detached and put to soak in a bath full of bleach. My belief is, a swirl of washing up liquid would be fine — we’re not that dirty. His belief is, we are. (There may be a reason for this. When he was little, his father would add Dettol to his bath.)

I, meanwhile, am genuinely allergic to cleaning. The arsenal of chemical weapons he employs to sterilise the shower essentially forms a mustard gas that burns my throat.

It’s possible that, having been made to do my bit and polish our wooden parquet floors as a child, I’ve been rebelling ever since. In my 20s, the flat I shared with friends was burgled. The police told me my room had really been turned over. If anything, the burglars had tidied up.

Meanwhile, resenting the idea that a woman’s place was in the kitchen, I didn’t learn to cook until we had children — they might say I still haven’t. I can make bolognese, tomato pasta, but little else.

Phil began our marriage as a non-cook, but has developed into a fabulous chef. He can whip up anything — bagels, custard tarts, curries, shepherd’s pie, empanadas, cheesecake, salmon en croute (his own pastry, always, what do you take him for?).

But the less fabulous cook tired of her meals getting a lukewarm reception so stopped making ‘The Fish Dish’ (fish, leeks, Greek yoghurt, cheddar) or ‘Thai’ chicken. Phil picked up my slack. If he’s away, I survive on baked potatoes and the boys beg for Domino’s pizza.

I’m not entirely idle. I do the online shop, our accounts (as in, I send them to our accountant), and the laundry. Now and then I’ll shrink a beloved jumper of Phil’s to pepper-pot size or grow repulsed by the dirty sock mountain and ignore it. Phil then buys more, worsening the problem.

Today, he casually suggested: ‘We might need a washer-dryer.’ As if he were implying that so great was my laundry burden that, despite my ceaseless toiling, the excellent washing machine and dryer we already owned were insufficient to manage the load, rather than — as we both knew — I’d taken a break from being Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.

In 1983, when the BSA survey began, the employment rate for females aged 16-64 was just 54 per cent. Now it’s 72 per cent. Stock image used

Phil irons his own shirts. I don’t iron. And it’s so unusual for me to tidy, that when I put away the clothes 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 about whose turn it is to take out the rubbish? Doesn’t apply. Phil always does it, as I once tweaked my back hoisting the bag into the bin.

He unblocks the drains. He books all holidays. I’m the only woman I know in my peer group unstressed by Christmas, as Phil makes the mince pies, gets the tree, and buys half the gifts.

I can’t even claim to have shouldered the greatest burden of childcare. Phil and I took turns over playdates, trips to the park and walking the boys to school.

To be fair, Phil is self-employed and so always able to be present and involved — but crucially, he’s wanted to be. When the boys were small, in the holidays I’d work and Phil would take them to castles, beaches, and dungeons.

He drove them to a zillion cricket matches, managed their various sports teams. He helped them find their passion. One son is now studying architecture — thanks to Phil, who saw his artistic potential years ago and discovered that the Royal Institute of British Architects in London ran free days for 14-year-olds. Not something I’d have thought of.

Our children are as likely to confide in him as me as he’s kind and wise.

Of course, Phil isn’t perfect. I made the children’s packed lunches year after year but once I was travelling for work, the task fell to him. He committed the rookie error of sending our youngest into his nut-free school with a peanut butter sandwich. I received the email of complaint, which I forwarded.

Do I sound like a terrible wife . . . or an old-fashioned husband? I suspect the younger generations are better at finding balance. No twentysomething woman I’ve met rushes to help clear the plates, which I grudgingly applaud.

Meanwhile, if Phil complains —’don’t leave that tissue on the radiator, it goes in the bin!’ — I try to do better. (I must have put it there subconsciously as I was as surprised as he was.)

Like most men, he’s incapable of shutting a cupboard door, or finding his keys — I merely assist. I’m also good at emotional support, more important than constantly Hoovering.

Clearly, a domestic goddess was not what he was after. That said, 27 years into marriage, and despite being Britain’s worst baker, I’ve learned how to make Nigella’s lemon polenta cake, his favourite dessert. I’m improving.

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