ONCE again, my husband and I have been arguing over who wears the trousers in our relationship, Or, to be more precise, who wears the

tracksuit trousers.

It started when he began cycling to work and, while looking for his own moth-eaten pair, he found mine first. As I hadn't worn them for six months, he decided to requisition them.

This isn't as kinky as it sounds - sorry to disappoint you. My husband and I are roughly the same height (except when he's doing the measuring, then, for some inexplicable reason, I lose three inches) so in theory, we could share our clothes.

In practise, I'm the one who buys them and my husband is the one who does the borrowing. Anything that takes his fancy then seems to take up permanent residence on his side of the wardrobe.

My skirts and dresses and most of the contents of my underwear drawer are safe, as he's not yet shown an interest in true transvestism. At least that's something for which we should all be grateful. I've nothing against cross-dressing but my husband bears a

striking resemblance to the rugby player Will Carling and his pins are far from dainty . . .

However, I've lost ownership of all my more masculine items, including my favourite hooded top, a fleece which was actually one of my mum's cast-offs (he's not proud) and most of my extra-large T-shirts.

If he catches me in any of them now he throws a strop and complains he has nothing to wear.

Usually I give in and head off to Gap or M&S to replace things in colours or styles he doesn't like - of which there seem to be very few these days. But with my tracksuit bottoms I put up a fight.

"They're the only pair I've got," I said, tugging at them as he tried to put them on one of his hangers.

"You never wear them," said he, tugging back.

"Only because it hasn't been cold enough," (tug). "Anyway, they'll be too tight around your waist."

"No they're not. Look."

He made one last triumphant tug, took off his jeans, slipped on the garment and proved to me that they did indeed fit him in a snug sort of way.

"Well, I still think you should buy your own," I said, sulkily.

Huffing and puffing over the "unfairness of it all", he went shopping and returned with tracksuit trousers identical to mine.

The next day he cycled to and from his office wearing his pair while I, to prove another point, wore mine around the house.

"How were they?" I said, as he arrived home. "Nice and warm," he puffed. "But one of the girls at work asked why I was wearing your leggings. And this is what happens when I bend over."

He demonstrated and gave me a sight I hadn't seen since the construction workers left Churchill Square.

"They do ride down a bit," I said, a

little shocked. "You want to watch out you don't blind people driving behind you . . . or get arrested."

This hasn't deterred him in the slightest. Perhaps there is something kinky in this, after all.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.