THE football season is up and running again and, in our house, that means Daddy does his disappearing act. Again.

Not only does he typically miss the daily grind of the morning, escaping downstairs and leaving the house to go to his quite fun job, before she who is our little bar-rattler is removed from her cage and changed, dressed and fed, he then only returns each evening after more changing, undressing and feeding are already complete.

Even then he gets to do the nice part of the work, reading bedtime stories and singing a lullaby or two.

And now, thanks to his exploits as a member of a Southampton-based amateur football team, we must deal without him on Tuesday nights (training) and on Saturdays (match days) too.

I’d like to pretend none of this bothers me, but who am I kidding? I can’t decide whether or not I resent how unfairly our work-life balance has turned out or if I should just accept that I am the nurturer of the family and stop whinging and get on with it.

Coincidentally, Sarah Jessica Parker’s new film, I Don’t Know How She Does It, is released this week. Based on the book of the same name by the British journalist and writer Allison Pearson, it’s very much what it says on the cover – how women manage to look after their families and work at the same time.

Oh, how I laughed when lots of the national papers carried columns from men reacting to the film, claiming they contributed equally – or more – to their households. Correct me if I am wrong, but I seriously doubt that’s the situation in most homes.

Admittedly, my own father did all the cooking, ironed the family trousers, packed the holiday suitcases and is still the organiser of the house. He was a terrific example to my brother – who can, incidentally, cook very well, most probably as a result of having watched dad over the years.

Perhaps it’s my fault that the man I love, and married, happens to be one I inherited directly from his (non-working) mother; who hadn’t ever lived independently and thus had never been forced to experience the great joy of completing the many menial tasks which keep a home operating.

Despite my many attempts to educate him, he still likes to think that there’s a little laundry fairy who flutters around our house, replenishing sock drawers and ironing shirts. Oh and sweeping the floor, removing limescale, feeding the cat and keeping the cupboards and fridge full of suitable items for him to hone in on and digest, noisily.

The masticating jaws of one’s other half could surely provoke a woman to murder, in the right circumstances.