It doesn’t happen that often, but it never happens any other way: I walk into a room to find that my wife is wearing an item of clothing I’ve never seen before.

“New dress?” I say.

“”It was on sale!” she shouts.  

“I wasn’t asking how much you paid for it,” I say. “I was just noticing.”

“I never buy anything for myself,” she says.

I’m not sure how we got started down this track.  My wife is not extravagant, or even a terribly keen shopper. She doesn’t need my permission to spend money - indeed she rarely consults me before buying anything less expensive than, say, a tumble dryer - and I have never once objected to the expansion of her wardrobe. Why do we persist in playing these roles?

My wife, I can only imagine, is embarrassed by the level of self-interest involved in the purchase of a new jumper for herself, as opposed to a year’s supply of underpants for three boys. Or it’s possible that she is perpetually uncertain about the wardrobe choices she makes, and does not wish to draw undue attention to them.

I am equally reluctant to show off new purchases, but for different reasons. The first is that I have invariably spent too much for too little. I hate shopping - it’s a chore I perform in a state of despair - and usually end up throwing money at the problem. The second is that my wife is not above questioning my taste after the fact, when it’s too late.

“Where did that shirt come from?” she says, one eyebrow arching upwards. 

“I bought it,” I say. 

“You left the house?”

“I needed printer ink,” I say. “And it was just there, on the way.”

“Did they not have any other colours?” she says. “I could exchange it for you, if you like.”

“Too late,” I say. “I’ve already spilt red wine on it.”

"Whenever my wife buys me trousers, she pays scant regard to the sort of thing I like or the sort of sizes I wear"

We could, I suppose, buy clothes for one another. My wife often buys me underwear (she operates a strict colour-coding system, and if I buy my own it throws everything out of whack), but whenever she decides to buy me trousers she pays scant regard to both the sort of thing I like and the sort of sizes I wear.

“What’s wrong with them?” she says. 

“They’re too long,” I say. “They’re way too long.”

“They didn’t have shorter ones,” she says. “Roll them up.”

Size, naturally, is one of the reasons I rarely risk buying my wife clothes. I can get the colour or the style wrong and eventually live it down, but not the size. Too big is insulting. Too small is also insulting. Even exactly right makes it seem as if I know too much. 

Very rarely we go on joint forays, selecting, trying on and purchasing clothes in one another’s presence. For me this uncomfortably replicates the trauma of shopping with my mother. The last time it happened was because I needed a dinner jacket in an emergency. My wife made me try one more than a dozen, before insisting on one so huge I had to have it taken in by a tailor. By the time he finished with it the pockets were on the back.

There don’t appear to be any easy solutions. Most of the time we still buy our clothes in secret, and we both become anxious when we’re inevitably found out. 

"Have I seen that top before?” I say. 

“It was half price!” shouts my wife.

“The money isn’t an issue!” I shout. “You’re allowed to buy clothes! For all I care, you could have bought two!” My wife extends her arms, looks down at the top, and then at me.

“Maybe I did,” she says.

HOW TO BE A HUSBAND by Tim Dowling is published by 4th Estate, price £12.99