Claire unlocked the door, dragged her heavy bags over the threshold, and caught her breath. Then, from the living room, she heard:
“Claire, finally! What’ve you got for dinner? Blimey, where’ve you been? I’m starving over here!”
Her mood, already sour, twisted into a prickly knot. Of course—Dave had spent the whole day lounging on the sofa like some posh lord, either glued to the telly or blasting away in some online shooter. The floor was still dirty, and he’d probably not even bothered to shove the laundry in the machine. But oh no, *she* was late—poor starving man-child! As if money just magically appeared in the dresser drawer!
Trudging like an exhausted plumber, Claire marched to the kitchen, unpacked the bags, and—still in her coat—started throwing together dinner. Her frustration took it out on the poor, innocent pots and pans.
Dave listened to her clattering away like an angry blacksmith’s workshop until even the telly couldn’t drown it out. He peeled himself off the sofa with a groan and went to negotiate some peace.
“Claire, love, what’s with all the racket? Can’t even hear the bloody news!”
She slammed a bowl down. “Eat! And I’ll make as much noise as I like! You’ve never worked a day in your life, let alone in a blacksmith’s!”
Dave pouted but sat down and dug into the bangers and mash. Claire kept banging things around, eating standing up, not even joining him. Her next question caught him off guard.
“While you were ‘busy’ on the sofa all day, did you at least put the washing on?”
He threw his hands up. “Washing? You having a laugh? That’s women’s work—I don’t have a clue about it! If I tried, you’d just yell at me for ruining your delicates or shrinking something!”
“Women’s work? You’re about as much of a ‘man’ as I am the Queen of Sheba! It’s a washing machine, Dave, not rocket science!” she snapped.
“Now, Claire, that’s out of order! I get it, you’re mad I’m between jobs, but I can’t just take *anything*—some gigs work you like a dog for pennies! A man’s got to find his calling, yeah? Takes time! And you treat me like dirt!”
If Dave had any self-preservation left that evening, it wasn’t working. Claire had gone dead silent—never a good sign—but he didn’t notice.
“You’re meant to be caring and soft, Claire, not stomping about like a builder named Big Kevin! Can’t you just, I dunno, *place* things down gently?”
She snorted, but Dave’s survival instincts were still fast asleep, possibly snoring. He finished eating, plonked his plate in the sink, and started pacing the kitchen like Churchill in Parliament.
“And you should show me some respect! I’m your *husband*, for heaven’s sake—it’s, like, legally required! Look at Fatima next door—how she dotes on Amir, never raises her voice! Why can’t you be more like that?”
Dave turned at the windowsill and finally noticed the danger. Claire was grinning like a cat eyeing a mouse, and in her hand—cosy as you please—was the cast-iron frying pan. Five kilos. And Claire was *strong*.
“Fatima… and Amir,” she hissed.
Amir and Fatima were well-known in their building. The young Pakistani couple had been gifted their flat by family—every relative had chipped in. Amir, a hard worker with a construction firm, ran side jobs at his uncle’s shop. Fatima kept house like it was an art form.
“Fatima,” Claire repeated, and Dave froze. “You’re right, love—she’s a *brilliant* wife. But you forgot one thing. *Amir*.”
Dave blinked.
“See, *Amir* has a proper job—works construction, helps his uncle, covers shifts at weekends. Doesn’t *faff* about ‘finding himself.’ And he buys her jewellery, dresses—she’s always showing off! No wonder she dances round him like he’s Prince William! *He* keeps her safe. *She* keeps him happy. But *us*?” She smacked the pan against her palm.
“*I* work two jobs. *You* sit about. So if we’re copying Amir and Fatima, *I’m* the bloke. Which makes *you* Fatima. And *you’re* rubbish at it.”
Dave’s jaw dropped. Claire *whacked* the pan on the table.
“Right—dishes. Now. Then clean this kitchen, shower, and come to bed *presentable*. Or I’ll turn this house into a matriarchy so fast your head’ll spin!” She marched off.
Dave, terrified, wordlessly tied on an apron.
***
It took him ages—he’d never *done* dishes—but he managed. Wiped the counters, swept, even splashed on aftershave. When he crept into the bedroom, Claire was already asleep. He curled up on the edge, too shaken to sleep. And when he did, it got worse.
In his dream, he, Darren from number 12, and Kevin from upstairs were belly-dancing in *sparkly harem pants*, while Amir and the lads sat around playing *Call of Duty*.
Claire, Fatima, and the wives lounged on the sofa in fancy dressing gowns, unimpressed.
“His gut’s wobbling.”
“Ew, hairy legs.”
“That one moves like jelly.”
Then Claire waved them off. “Go tidy up, you useless lumps. Dave—wash up. Darren—hoover. Kevin—ironing. Amir’s *actually* a man, so he stays.”
Dave woke up on the floor, heart pounding. 5 a.m. He stumbled to the kitchen for water—no idea where the valerian was.
***
Claire was baffled the next morning—Dave had bolted out early, muttering about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and left for work.
But the *real* madness waited at home.
First—a clean floor. Then Dave’s voice from the kitchen:
“Claire! Tea’s going cold. I got a cake—didn’t trust my cooking.”
He popped out—fresh polo shirt, proper jeans.
“Dave—you *alright*?”
“Course! Quick celebration—got a job! Electrician. Amir hooked me up. Those new builds are a nightmare—wiring’s all over the shop!”
***
Knitting needles clicked as Claire sat by the playground.
“Look—your Max caught my Musa again!” Fatima rocked her pram. “And he’s younger!”
Claire smirked. “Takes after his dad—my Dave’s a proper worker now.”
Fatima nodded. “Amir said he got promoted? Lucky you—hold onto that one!”
Claire’s phone buzzed. “Best go—Dave’ll be home soon. Bangers and mash tonight!”
Fatima stood too. “I’ve got samosas ready. Pop by for the recipe—Dave’ll love it! When’s the baby due?”
Claire rubbed her belly. “Two months. Girl.”
“Gorgeous, like her mum!”
***
Dave—*Mr. Davies* now—smiled at the sunset. Just in time—another minute and those lads would’ve fried the circuits.
He nodded at the workers and headed for his car—nothing flashy, but reliable. Enough for work, the in-laws’, trips with Max.
Claire promised sausage and mash tonight. *Hope she remembers*—hers was proper, with onion gravy. Then he’d build Lego with Max while she tidied. Swing by the shop too—Amir’s cousin had autumn melons, and Claire shouldn’t be lugging taters now.
The engine purred. Max was already at the window, watching for Dad’s “vroom-vroom.”
Dave felt like a king.
