Meet the mousewife

The battle of the sexes, thank goodness, is nearing its end. Men are raising the white flag and openly admitting what we've always known deep down: that women are far better equipped to run the show than we are.

I say this with the deepest sigh of relief, being one of a rising tide of men whose partner is the breadwinner, who are now free from the pressure to be a chestbeating conqueror, the ruler of the roost, like our fathers were. Last week I married someone who earns 10 times more than me and I've settled into a quiet life of househusbandry and personal hobbies.

An article in Vogue described this newly liberated man, happy to live in his wife's shadow, as "the mousewife - the man behind many a successful woman". Thankfully, comments like these don't weigh on my stress-free conscience. I've got one message for the begrudgers out there: hunter-gathering went out with the stone-age!

The phenomenon of Lads Who Lunch, men of leisure with high achieving partners, is here to stay, and it can only grow bigger. With their superior communication and management skills, women will continue to wrestle power and money away from men, and their criteria for a husband will evolve accordingly.

My wife, for example, has an aversion to "men in suits". She wanted, and got, a man who's not threatened by her intelligence, who wants to help her do even better, and is more than happy to bask in the reflected glory.

I've always thought the reason men are so obsessed with succeeding at work, largely in jobs that don't satisfy them, is to raise their cachet among women, to help them find a desirable mate. Having found my wife, I feel almost no compulsion to prove myself. If she's happy with me being the way I am, then so am I.

My own masculinity has never been in crisis. Keeping the house tidy is the most basic courtesy I could pay to someone who brings home the corn, especially as we have no children to clean up after. My ironing skills have always been better than hers, so it's common sense that I keep our shirts in order.

Being a mousewife is actually a confirmation of my self-worth; after all, why would a successful, dynamic, highly creative woman want to be with me, a man of no means, unless I had inherent charm? And, of course, unlike many high-flying executives, I'm not too tired for sex at the end of the day.

My new freedom means I read more books now than ever I did at university, that I spend the odd afternoon at a museum or gallery, and have become an accomplished cook. At the end of her day, I'm sure most working women don't want to come home to an exhausted grouch who wants to trade office-war stories over a ready-meal; she wants good food, interesting conversation, and calm, attentive company.

I am by no means a perfectly reconstructed New Man. I watched every match of the World Cup sitting on the couch in a sea of biscuit wrappers and empty bottles of Coke. There are days when if she phones me one more time to ask if I've fed the cats, emptied the tumble drier, collected the dry cleaning or supervised the bin men, I feel like cracking open a can of Nastro Azzuro and standing it, cold and dripping, on the wooden kitchen table.

Sometimes, when she gets home all stressed from work and shrieks: "Lighting, Nirpal!" (what is it about women and bare light bulbs?) I cringe in my Matthew Hilton chair.

I have at times been so lulled by my new found tranquillity that I didn't realise I had done no housework until I heard her Beetle pulling up outside, at which point I'd empty the dishwasher and hide dirty laundry under the bed in a frenzy.

Unfortunately, she's just bought a quieter car. I now phone her at
work regularly throughout the day, to get an estimated time of arrival. She thinks I'm being sweet and interested, but I'm also keeping my back covered.