IT was unfortunate that my husband suggested making us scrambled eggs for lunch just as I'd hit the trough of a bad mood.

"No thanks," I said, glumly. His face fell too. He'd been trying to cheer me up.

"Actually, I don't like your scrambled eggs," I added, rather harshly. "They're too rubbery for my taste."

Being far more reasonable than

his wife, my husband didn't retaliate

at the time. Instead, he offered to

make me some toast. But he was obviously deeply wounded by my cruel honesty.

"Would you like some chewy chicken pie?" he said later. "Or shall I rustle up a soggy pizza with a flaccid salad?"

Normally, I am the first to defend my husband's cooking. He is inventive, adventurous and could show Delia Smith a thing or two if he got his hands on her meringues.

His culinary skills are far superior to mine and most of his dishes are divine and delectable creations.

This doesn't change the way I feel about his scrambled eggs, however. Especially when he makes them with gherkins.

To redress the balance, I asked him

if there were any house specialities

of mine he didn't like. He had to

ponder a bit, mainly because he

couldn't remember the last time I'd cooked.

In fact, all he could think of were my failings as his kitchen assistant. He pointed out that I can't cut bread properly, I invariably forget to time rice and pasta and I throw food away "as soon as we've bought it".

None of this was news to me. We've had several discussions in the past over the value of having neatly sliced loaves, my argument being that life's too short to spend an extra three seconds concentrating on keeping the knife straight.

And I'd much rather trust my instincts than a fallible clockwork device to judge whether food has been cooked sufficiently.

I admit to chucking out comestibles that are possibly still edible, but my husband goes to other extremes.

I'll be heading for the bin with a jar

of beetroot, saying: "It's three hours past its sell-by date. It's got to go."

But he'll then rugby tackle me, wrest

it from my grip and add its contents

to his boiling vat of potato

peelings, month-old custard skin and

the sports pages of the Evening

Argus.

At least now if he starts whisking eggs to go with the concoction I

can safely assume he won't be offering me any.

Still, I have no regrets. And since I've come out in the open over my dislike of my husband's eggy surprises, I would advise all those who've suffered

years of meals they detest to speak up too.

Tell your mother her macaroni cheese isn't fit for rats, protest to your partner that his sausage casserole stinks and spit out the pale, scummy tea your child lovingly brings to you in bed each morning.

You could even try telling yourself that your prune and tuna bake would benefit from a little extra seasoning occasionally.

Fair's fair, after all.

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