THE husband bashing continues this week, I’m afraid, but at least this time it’s something he does unconsciously.

In the middle of a horrible night, when I was up every few hours with our sick daughter, he unleashed a full force elbow at my head at 3am, muttered sorry, rolled over and went straight back to sleep.

Then at 6.40am, he excitedly wanted to tell me about the amazing dream he’d had where he was wielding a Lightsaber against Darth Vader – having, of course, no idea he’d whacked me so hard that my head pulsed in pain throughout the rest of my working day.

Yes, as a few comedians who heard the story commented, I felt The Force.

This 'abuse' has occurred throughout our married life, making co-habiting even more fun than usual. There was the time when he was apparently playing alongside Gazza – I knew this from the gibberish he was speaking out loud – before he took a powerful shot at goal, and kicked me in the back.

At least once a week, I narrowly miss a whack to the neck or head, given his propensity to sleep with his arms raised and bent, ready to suddenly snap and make contact with his sleeping wife.

But my major problem is how to react? It’s impossible not to be angry because of the force, the shock, and his immediately going back to sleep as if nothing has occurred and no one’s been wounded – despite the fact that I know it is all accidental.

At least I am not alone in this torment. His brother’s partner and I are forever sharing horror stories about the snoring and the rest of the weirdness. There definitely seems to be something in their DNA which causes all of this nocturnal nonsense.

By the skin of my teeth, I have also just survived a visit from my mother, who came for a wee holiday (for her) in perfect time for my birthday. After I woke her every morning with a cup of tea and toast on a tray (just like my dad does), she then wandered around the house in her pyjamas making helpful inquiries such as “does that bin need emptying?” – no, it didn’t – and “aren’t you going to iron those (our daughter’s vests)?” – no, I’m not.

To survive, there was a lot of tongue biting and disappearing into the kitchen to do some therapeutic baking, but her invaluable babysitting (when the baby had gone to bed and she could recline on the sofa eating a gooseberry fool and watching TV) meant the husband and I were able, for the first time in months, to escape and spend the evening alone.

Thanks Mum!