The final straw came last year when someone who knows me very well bought me a Slanket.  This abomination is a £25 square of scratchy fleece material ( oversized even for Arnold Swarzenegger) for certified slobs to enjoy.  It’s for loafing around all day, and some of the night, until it’s time for a sideways move from the Slanket into the duvet.  That manoeuvre would  probably be the only exercise a Slanket enthusiast would get all day. It has pouch pockets on the front roomy enough for a tv remote and a Mars Bar six pack.

My husband hasn’t given me a present for 30 years since he went through a phase of  buying me waxed huntin’, fishin’, shootin’ clothes from an Army Surplus Store and I thanked him with a heavy blunt object.

If I changed my mind and told him there had been a rule change, I know he would head straight for Robert Dyas, or Wickes. And I don’t want any charity goats, either, thanks very much.