Ian McMillan: The day my wife hammered home a message

The moment that, like a storm in the distance, had been threatening to arrive for a long time, getting closer. "I must get that shed done," my wife kept saying, and I'd nod sagely and carry on reading my favourite book of avant-garde Venezuelan verse.

Now I shouted in the direction of the shed that I'd come and help, just give me a minute to get into my working gear and I'd be there in a

jiffy. Oddly, my words took on the rhythm of my wife's pounding so that my offer of assistance was delivered in the shape and tone of an early rap record or a primitive work song from the bayou.

Upstairs, I remembered that I had no working gear because I never did any work. Ernie next door has some overalls and my Dad used to get changed into gardening trousers but I'm sorry to announce that I've got nothing of the sort. So I put on a pair of shorts and fished yesterday's shirt out of the wash basket. There: working gear!

I went back to what future historians might call "The Site of McMillan's Rebuttal" and said: "Right, I'm ready, what do you want me to do first?"

I made sure that my face was set in a determined expression that said: "Look at me; I'm willing and able to work." My wife turned and spoke, making sure she took the nails out of her mouth first. "I think we're all right, actually." She must have noticed my crestfallen expression because she added, in a pitying voice: "If we need you we'll shout you." I kept my working gear on as I grabbed my book from the shelf.

To be honest, I couldn't concentrate on the old Venezuelan avant-garde verse, and it wasn't just my wife's joyous and determined

hammering that was disturbing me; as I listlessly flicked the pages I reflected on an earlier encounter between the romanticism of the McMillan clan and the hard-headed realism of the Goldthorpe (my

wife's maiden name) family. Oddly, this other clash of cultures also involved a shed.

It was many years ago, when we hadn't been in the house long and the old shed at the bottom of the garden was in an advanced state of decay and we decided to get a new one. The new one was to be delivered on a certain day and that meant we had to get rid of the old one; I was of course much younger then but I still didn't have any work clothes and my wife knew, without telling me in so many words, that I'd be less than useless at shed demolition, even when the shed was so exhausted it was almost indulging in an act of self-demolition, so she enlisted the help of my dad and her dad. Two fathers. Two fathers-in-law. One shed.

My dad and my father-in-law arrived at the same time and set about pounding the shed to pieces as though they were trying to beat it up in a bar-room brawl in a cowboy film. As they reduced the shed to its constituent parts and I stood slightly away from the action but still signalling by my facial expression and body language that I was more than willing to help, I noticed that, as well as demolishing, the two middle-aged blokes were waving their arms above their heads like

tic-tac men. I saw my dad slap his own face and my father-in-law

take off his flat cap and scythe the air. I became aware of a low humming. Then I worked it out: bees! They were being attacked by bees that were streaming from a nest under the shed!

The differing philosophies of the two men surfaced instantly. My dad suggested that they send for the Council Bee Man, a role I'm sure he invented on the spot. My father-in-law picked up a shovel and began to pound the nest, angering the homeless bees even more.

My dad suggested finding a professional bee-remover in the Yellow Pages. My father-in-law ran into our kitchen, boiled the kettle, and poured the water onto the bees. My dad wrung his hands and wondered aloud if this was the right policy. My father-in-law set fire to some twigs and tried to smoke the bees out. The bees, furious, continued to circle and swoop.

In the end neither philosophy won out and the bees drifted away of their own accord to find somebody else's shed to squat in. My dad and my father-in-law had a cup of tea and chatted about the weather. That's how it should be, I guess; the practical and the romantic side by side. Perhaps that's why my wife and I have been married for 31 years...