Mea Styxia

Thanks to Styx and his comments about how men and women watch TV in a different way yesterday, I appear to have tumbled into that place where I should offer some househusbandnot thoughts on the differences between the sexes. The theory is that I now provide some fine-tuned insight and wit into the differences between men and women, and we all laugh some and love each other a little closer.

I don't think so. On our first ever car journey together, mrs househusbandnot (who was then newgirlfriendwhois) bought an audio tape of Men Are From Mars Women Are From Venus for us to enjoy on the journey. We got through about four minutes of it - the tape rather than the journey. Every other article I read keeps trying to prize the sexes further apart with some more frazzled and overcooked pop sociology about the differences between us. The first ever piece of writing I got paid for resulted in me getting hate mail from American support groups for men who were traumatised by having been circumcised, and from London women's health groups who said I was being sexist. (It was my line about comparing female circumcision to male circumcision being like comparing rape to masturbation that got those good ol' boys and serious London women trembling with anger.) And I also have three sisters. So, I am not adding fuel to any of more Mars/Venus fires. Like star signs and The Daily Mail, it just gets in the way of better communication.

Actually, I really would like to have something clever to say about the differences between women and men, but I don't have much to say...

...other than agreeing with Styx about the watching TV thing, and wondering why women always want to turn music down, and think June Sarpong is tarty rather than a fine TV journalist, and don't get how wrong it is to fancy Gordon Ramsey, or that girls' nights out only ever end earlier than boys' night out because women don't have as much to talk about, or the fact that you not bothering to wear a jacket was as a direct result of her saying the other night that she loved you whatever you looked like, or that there is a direct correlation between her doing five clothes washes in a row and you not being able to find anywhere to dry the wet clothes with the fact that you don't live at Blenheim, or the fact that you and her friend's husband who is 'trouble' have a good time when you meet up at weddings is a bad thing, or you telling her that the hot chick over there came over and talked to you while she was at the bar is some sort of insult to something rather than you being honest, or the fact that you...or that...hey, alright, I've got it. How many really really decent female guitarists are there out there anyway?

I'm off to Oxshott to learn how to design websites. I'll be the bloke on the train reading Grazia.