‘I’m off to Morrisons to collect my meds, do we need anything,’ the Mister asks?

There was a time when a trip to Morrisons was all about a bottle of wine and a pizza, now it’s more likely to be a search for HRT and blood pressure pills.

‘Will you bring me something nice?’ I ask looking up from my book.

I can see the look of horror on his face.

He stoops to hug me.

‘You said if you asked me to bring you something nice I was meant to give you a hug because you were trying to avoid junk food.’

He is on dangerous ground here and we can both feel it.

‘Yeeeees!’ I smile brightly. ‘and I meant it when I said it, but obviously I don’t mean it now, so can you get me something nice.’

Every woman in the world knows what ‘something nice’ means, don’t they?

It means something comforting, something soothing, a little pick-me-up.

Your actual ‘something nice’ might differ from my ‘something nice’ but still, our partners should be able to translate.

After decades, my husband still panics.

It’s not like it’s an expansive list – my ‘something nice.’

Some chocolate, nice biscuits (not be confused with Nice biscuits, obviously) A bunch of flowers is a lovely touch but is not a substitute for actual bloody chocolate.

My husband once came home with a Swiss roll.

Nothing else.

Just a Swiss roll.

Who, in their right mind would consider a Swiss roll ‘something nice’? I mean seriously, who has ever been lying around with period pains, or PMS or hot flushes (or all three if the menopause fairy is busy) and thought, ‘Oooh, I could just fancy a Swiss roll.’

‘It’s got buttercream,’ he tried, retreating slowly avoiding eye contact, making no sudden movements, before hostage negotiators needed to be called in. Again.

‘A bloody Swiss roll was something nice when I was a kid,’ he muttered heading down the stairs.

‘There was rationing then,’ I shouted at his back.  ‘You hadn’t seen a banana for thirty years.’  

A bloody Swiss roll! I can still be found muttering in the garden at the thought of it. Never have baked goods caused such rage and fury.

He’s back from the shops.

Once again his meds are nowhere to be seen, another national shortage. It’s a bloody disgrace, but that’s a whole other blog post.

To cover his bets with ‘something nice’ he’s bought chocolate, a pack of Wagon Wheels, mini eggs and some weird-looking blueberries.

He’s been so long I’ve already eaten an apple and am feeling much calmer.

‘I thought I’d get us a cake,’ he rummages in the bag clearly traumatised by the shop and the thought of running out of his medication.

‘Why don’t I make us a cup of tea?’ I soothe, seeing how stressed he is. ‘Here, gimme that.’

I send him to sit down and be mauled by the dog while I peer into the bag suspiciously. Luckily it’s Cadbury’s mini rolls so there’s no need to fall out.

Everyone loves a mini roll, don’t they? All that chocolatey goodness.

And anyway, it’s the thought that counts.