Have been trying to explain to husband that reputation as industrious journalist (a reputation he claims I invented) is being tarnished due to noise of Hoover.

Several of my commissioning editors have called to discuss feature ideas (or missed deadlines) and been unable to hear what I had to say.

Thomas's reply, that solution to problem might be to meet deadlines and turn Hoover off before answering phone, resulted in big row during which we compared the amount of work we both did.

I pointed out to Thomas that his days consist of managing to totally ignore the presence of self and children, while he has a leisurely shower and saunters off to work, where he delegates all actual work to others.

My day, in comparison, is so saturated with deadlines that have to be met (get children up, get them breakfast, get them to school on time, pick shirts up from dry cleaners, remember to make daughter appointment at optician and write informative, witty and entertaining features for various papers) that it is hardly surprising if I miss the odd one.

"Anyway," he said "What's with the sudden Hoovering obsession anyway? You never used to Hoover." Which is true.

But have found that, despite protestation to former commuting friends, who claim working from home is a euphemism for staring out of the window looking at the sea and doing housework, being at home all day makes you more intolerant of dirt, which previously you only saw after a long day in town and were then too tired to do anything about.

"So what do you want me to do about it?" asked Thomas, nervously, obviously fearing that I was about to suggest he occasionally help clean house himself, a suggestion which probably would have compelled him to spend even longer hours in his office than he already does.

"I was thinking we should get a cleaner," I said, watching him visibly relax.

"Sara knows someone," I added, knowing that both Thomas and Sara's husband Peter had been secretly admiring the state of Sara's sparklingly clean home when had dinner there a few weeks ago, a feat which had been achieved by Tony, the urban muscular and incredibly good-looking house cleaner we'd met at a party.

"That effeminate cleaner chap?" Thomas asked, using the description of Tony that Peter had given him, which Sara said Peter had simply assumed on the grounds that anyone who even changed a plug on a Hoover was lacking in testosterone.

Yes, him," I confirmed, not wishing to shatter this illusion, as getting a cleaner was not simply a ploy on my part to salvage reputation but also a bid to secure the company of muscular Tony for a few hours each week.

"Whatever" said Thomas, as he left for work and I dialled Sara's number to ask for Tony's and tell her the news.

Sara was very slow in coming to the phone and a little breathless when she answered it.

She didn't sound overjoyed when I said I was thinking of seeing if Tony could spare the odd hour to come round to my house and could I have his number please.

"He's here now actually," she said. "I'll just get him ..."