Please come back Mrs Bridges! writes Andy Mitchell

Now as a single man, I was more than capable of running things on the domestic front. Indeed, they still chat in hushed corners about the quality of my shirt ironing.

What seems to have happened in the years since, is a complete inability to remember how to do any of it.

Friday evening after work found me on my hands and knees in the Utility Room, receiving instructions by text from Mrs M on how to start up the washing machine.

Mealtimes have involved that ritual that blokes will recognise well, opening any cupboard in the kitchen and staring into it, while waiting for a suggestion of what to eat to come flying out.

I haven’t been near a cooker in a decade and so I fret that I’ve turned the gas on and off in the right way.

I even got to the roundabout one morning on the way to work and drove back to convince myself I’d managed it.

Realising that I am indeed a 1920s throwback in my attempt to work the most basic of appliances, I am pleased to report the washing was done to perfection and I even hung it up on that rack thing that hangs from the ceiling.

After admiring the whitest shirts and underpants in Lancashire for a couple of days suspended in mid air, I removed them from the rack, but so far I haven’t ironed anything.

I haven’t starved, the nearby pub being more than a welcome unofficial dining room with its menu of hot food in the evenings.

Upstairs Downstairs fans will be familiar with the way food always seems to appear on cue, as Major Bellamy waits in the Drawing Room.

Suddenly realising how useless I am around the house, I’m anxiously waiting for the return of Mrs Bridges.

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