Olivia unlocked the front door, heaved her heavy shopping bags over the threshold, and took a deep breath. Just then, a voice called from the living room:
“Liv, finally! What’ve you got for dinner? And where’ve you been? I’m practically starving to death over here!”
Her mood, already far from cheerful, shrivelled into an ugly, prickly lump. Typical. Jack had spent another day lounging like a king on the sofa, glued to the telly or mucking about on his console. The floor was just as filthy as she’d left it, and the laundry was probably still piled up. But no, of course, *she* was the one running late—never mind that her grown man couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger! And the money? Oh, that just magically appeared in the drawer, didn’t it?
With the weary trudge of a plumber after a long shift, Olivia stomped into the kitchen, unpacked the shopping, and—still in her coat—started throwing dinner together. She was hungry too, dang it! Her frustration took it out on the innocent pots and pans, banging them around like a one-woman marching band.
Jack, sprawled on the sofa, listened to the kitchen symphony for a while before finally cracking. Even the telly couldn’t drown it out. With a groan, he hauled himself up and shuffled in to investigate.
“Liv, what’s with all the racket? I can’t even hear the news!”
Olivia slammed a plate onto the table. “Eat! And I’ll make as much noise as I like! Not like *you’d* know what hard work sounds like!”
Jack scowled but sat down anyway, shovelling in the bangers and mash. Olivia kept clattering about, eating standing up, too wound up to sit. Her question caught him off guard—his mind had already drifted back to his game.
“While you were busy turning the sofa into a permanent fixture, did you even *think* to put the washing on?”
He threw his hands up. “Liv, come off it! Laundry’s women’s work! I’m a bloke—I don’t know the first thing about it, and I shouldn’t have to! Last time I tried, you yelled at me for ruining your delicates!”
“A bloke? Pull the other one! And what, in all these years, you never once thought to learn how to work a washing machine?” she snapped.
Jack huffed. “Liv, that’s well out of order! You’re taking the mick! I get it, you’re cheesed off I’m between jobs, but it’s temporary! I can’t just take any old muck work—I’ve got to find my *calling*, haven’t I? A man’s got to stand for something! And you treat me like dirt!”
Something was off with Jack’s survival instincts that evening. Otherwise, he might’ve noticed the dangerous quiet that fell over Olivia. But no—he ploughed on.
“You’re a woman, Liv! You’re supposed to be all gentle and nurturing! Instead, you’re clattering about like a builder on his tea break! Can’t you at least *try* not to sound like a demolition crew?”
Olivia let out a sharp breath through her nose, but Jack’s self-preservation was still fast asleep—maybe even snoring. He scraped his plate clean, dumped it in the sink, and started pacing the kitchen like a politician on election night.
“And another thing—you could stand to show me a bit of respect! I’m your *husband*, aren’t I? It’s only right! Take Sophie next door—she dotes on her Tom like he’s royalty! They never row, never raise their voices. *That’s* how it’s done! Why do I have to teach you this?”
Jack pivoted by the window and finally clocked the danger. Olivia was squinting at him like a cat sizing up a mouse. And in her right hand? A frying pan. Cast iron. Heavy enough to knock out a horse. And Olivia? Strong as an ox.
“Sophie, eh? And Tom,” she said slowly, teeth clenched.
Everyone on their street knew Tom and Sophie. The young couple had been gifted their flat by Tom’s family after years of saving. They were proper Brits, but Tom’s roots were Jamaican, and though they weren’t overly traditional, they kept some customs—like Sophie doting on him like he’d hung the bleedin’ moon.
“Sophie,” Olivia repeated, and Jack froze like a deer in headlights. “Y’know what, love? You’re right. She *is* a good wife. But you’re forgetting someone. Actually—*someones*.”
Jack blinked.
“See, sweetheart, Tom’s up at dawn for his construction job, then does shifts at his cousin’s garage, *and* helps out weekends at the market. Ain’t got time to ‘find himself’—too busy *working*. And Sophie? Always flashing some new bit of jewellery or dress he’s bought her. Course she fusses over him—he’s her rock! She’s not sweating bills or where the next meal’s coming from. *He’s* got that covered. So yeah, she puts the effort in.”
Jack gaped, still not following. Olivia smacked the frying pan lightly against her palm.
“Now let’s look at *us*. Who’s working two jobs and picking up weekend shifts? That’d be *me*, Jackie-boy. And who’s sat at home like a lump? That’d be *you*. So if we’re comparing, *I’m* Tom in this scenario. And you, sweetheart? *You’re* Sophie.”
Jack’s jaw practically hit the floor. *That* angle? Never saw it coming. Olivia wasn’t done.
“So no, *you* don’t get to nag *me* about being more like Sophie. If anything, *I* should be nagging *you*! You’re a man in the bathroom, bedroom, and pub—but everywhere else? Sophie! And you’re rubbish at it! Floors filthy, laundry festering, dinner not even *started* when I get home. And look at you—creased T-shirt, trackies with a saggy bum, and a gut coming in! How d’you expect to charm me like that?”
Jack stood there, gobsmacked. Olivia *whammed* the pan onto the table.
“Right. Dishes. Now. Then tidy this kitchen, shower, and show up in the bedroom looking *presentable*. Or I’ll organise a matriarchy so fast your head’ll spin. *Sophie*, my arse!” She stormed off, leaving Jack rooted to the spot.
***
Jack was so rattled he wordlessly tied on an apron and attacked the dishes. It wasn’t pretty, but he got it done—washed up, wiped the table, swept the floor. After a shower, he even splashed on some aftershave. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, he was relieved to find Olivia already asleep.
He edged onto his sliver of mattress. Sleep didn’t come easy—too wound up. And when it finally did? Nightmare.
He dreamt he was in harem pants, belly-dancing in the living room with his mates Dave and Mike from down the pub. Meanwhile, Tom from next door—dressed like a normal bloke—was parked on the sofa, playing *Call of Duty* on Jack’s console.
On the sofa, Olivia, Sophie, and Dave and Mike’s wives lounged in fancy silk dressing gowns, sipping wine and critiquing their performance. *”That one’s got hairy legs.” “This one’s gut’s gone to pudding.”*
Jack, Dave, and Mike were giving it their all—hip shakes, eyelashes fluttering—but the women just rolled their eyes. Then Olivia waved a hand like a queen. *”Off you pop, lads. You—dishes. You—hoover. You—ironing. Tom’s staying. Only *proper* man here.”*
Jack woke up in a cold sweat, sprawled on the floor. 5 AM. He wobbled to the kitchen for water—where *was* the bloomin’ valerian? Olivia always sorted the medicines.
***
Next morning, Olivia blinked in shock. Jack—her lazy layabout—was out the door before her, muttering about “errands.” She rolled her eyes and dashed to work.
But that was nothing. The *real* surprise came that evening.
First: the hallway floor was *clean*. Before she could process that miracle, Jack’s voice floated from the kitchen:
“Liv! Finally! Kettle’s going cold. Got a cake from Tesco—figured I’d not risk cooking…”
He popped his head out—clean T-shirt, actual *jeans*. Olivia stared.
“Jack… you alright?”
“Tip-top! Got a job. Electrician. Tom put in a word with his foreman. Those new builds? Wiring’s a bloody mess. Needs a proper hand.”
***
Knitting needles clicked rhythmically as Olivia sat on theOlivia smiled to herself as she watched Jack play with little Max in the garden, thinking how far they’d come—from frying pan showdowns to this quiet, happy life.
