I TURNED 37 last week. The husband remembered that, but not our wedding anniversary two days later. I spent ages on my homemade card and thoughtful gift, which he opened with the enthusiasm of someone opening a parking fine.

I was hoping for shiny eyes and a long cuddle with no bottom groping. I didn’t get it.

He shuffled a meeting round and drove me into town for the quickest breakfast ever, then whizzed me round TK Maxx, shoving candles under my nose saying “smells nice? Shall I buy it for the anniversary, shall I, shall I?’

I came home with indigestion, whiplash and a headache.

I don’t know why I bother writing him poems. He only glances at them and groans at the effort I must have gone to.

He’s like “How much time did it take you? I’ll pay you above the standard living wage.” He’s such a romantic swine.

If I tell him all I want is to snuggle up listening to the songs we played at our wedding and reminisce about our years together he swears and gets in a mood.

If I ask him to tell me the lineage of the true world heavyweight champion, he’d chat all night, with a 75-slide-powerpoint presentation.

These are the things people don’t tell you about marriage.

If on our first date (Brighton beach, I rolled in a dog poo while snogging. It was a sign of things to come) he’d told me how much he loves statistics, maybe I’d have been more prepared.

He was all cool and smooth back then though and used to call me “babe”.

Now he calls me things I can’t write in this column and asks me if I’ll ever stop talking. No, is the answer my darling.

I woke him up this week to tell him about a particularly interesting dream I’d just had (I had to mend holes in socks for my brother on a tiny boat) and he was so fed up he said his “crisp blisters” hurt.

Obviously, he was sleep taking, obviously I’m never going to let him forget it.

I think unless you are best friends with your other half, you won’t make it.

Fancying them is not enough. I used to long for his brown eyes on me, now I want him to look elsewhere so I can order stuff on his Amazon Prime account. Mainly awful romances to fill the void.

I’m not good at accents, or times tables, or remembering appointments.

I’m rubbish at cooking meat and don’t lay the cutlery neatly in the dishwasher so it never closes properly.

I’m not sure why this bothers him so much. His attempts at making the bed are pitiful, and he leaves ginger beard trimmings in the sink.

I don’t lecture him about it, and even if I did he wouldn’t listen, yet I have to stand and be shown, again, how to lay down knives and forks just so.

I don’t care if I utilise all the space in the dishwasher. I just want my teapot clean for the morning.

Nine years ago, we said “I do”, and we are still rubbing (one another up the wrong way) along together.

All marriages are dysfunctional right? I look to my parents for what marriage looks like, and it’s pretending to be deaf, and playing songs the other one hates as loudly as possible.

The husband hates Graceland by Paul Simon. It’s the top played album on my Spotify.

I cannot stand those stupid Meerkats from the advert. Every time he sees one at a car boot sale, he gets it for me.

He knows I’m very particular about what goes on my mantelpiece, so he buys the worst things he can find as the centrepiece.

Currently, a large plastic bear with a gun on its back is sitting alongside my vintage medicine bottles.

The worst bit is the kids find him really, really funny.

Obviously, I get him back by buying itchy crochet blankets that his giant deformed feet get trapped in at 3am.

When he wakes me up effing and jeffing I shout “crisp blisters” in his face. He hates stopping to chat to strangers, I hate Talk Sport. He hates dancing, I love to boogie on a Saturday night.

When he moans about getting decent coffee I call him a city slicker. When I take my travel blanket in the car, he calls my Aunt Maud.

He loves posh botanical gin. My favourite drink is Top Deck Shandy (only the one mind or I get all silly).

But as Evan Dando sings, he’s the “puzzle piece behind the couch that makes the sky complete”.

Happy anniversary old boy. A whole column dedicated to you.

How many scented candles do I get now?