I don't know what's wrong with her and sometimes I wonder why we married.

I should have married the grey-haired woman who runs the newsagency. She loves her cricket and I'm sure she wouldn't harass me when she got home to find I'm spreadeagled on the couch in my underwear, sipping tea and watching the day slip away with the television on and dirty dishes still piled on the sink.

I explained to my wife that I was working but she looked at me with her nose turned and eyes as dark as a shark's and said: ''Why don't you go and get a real job and do something useful with your life, build something, fix something, do something with your hands instead of writing for that la-dee-da paper.''

My blood was boiling and I shouted back, ''I do,'' then stormed down to the front room to start writing this story, wondering what the hell I meant by that.

I understand there is a stigma attached to day-time TV watchers and we are supposed to feel guilty and lazy, but I resent being treated with such disrespect, especially when the cricket is on.

One of my few skills is watching cricket on the couch and I told my wife that it would be unwise of me not to put my talents to use.

I'm also excellent at thinking, which means I like thinking about things. I'll give you an example: yesterday, after Simon Katich went out, that bank commercial came on (you know the one: when the advertising guys come up with the basketball game and the staid morons from the bank look all bewildered and serious and say they don't like the concept).

Well, I was thinking about it and it occurred to me that shooting hoops in a bank was a great idea and was an ingenious way to kill time when the queue was a mile long and you're waiting for the tellers to finish their conversation; either that or a putt-a-matic golf gizmo.

I thought I was on to something, too, and I told my wife but naturally she gave me that unimpressed look. Man, she is hard to please.