We’ve all heard the tedious line about how the good old days were so much better. It’s said by those who yearn for a bygone era of stiff upper lips, Sunday church and honour on the cricket field, a time when the buttoned-up knew their place and respected their betters. Of course, the reality for many was very different – backstreet abortions, cold water slums, consumption and rickets. And let’s not forget; the love that dares not speak its name could get you banged up. Oh, the smug joy of seeing the past through rose-tinted glasses. Sounds like a nasty dose of false memory syndrome to me.

But then I saw this on Faceache and started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

If this is genuine, it must be from an American rag. New-fangled miracle machines like dishwashers were but a pipe dream in post-war, bombed-out Britain. But I am drawn to the notion of a doting homemaker who never complains and whose only function in life is to service my every need. If only I could get Liam to ‘fix his makeup’ and ‘put a ribbon in his hair’ just before I get home after a hard day at the office. And ‘be a little gay’ to give me a well-earned lift.

Fat chance. I should have slipped ‘obey’ into our marriage vows. He calls me his ‘little gay’.