Wendyl Nissen: Reality bites

As a columnist, it's nice if, just occasionally, you pay some attention to your editor, who suggests ever so nicely that you may like to fit in with the theme of the publication for once.

Usually I just ignore her, but this week I stumbled across an old email requesting I might like to write something about Father's Day and decided to play nice.

This is a problem for me. Not because I don't have a father, but because the one I have is a lovely, quiet, retiring sort of man, who would rather pull his eyes out of their sockets slowly than pick up his Sunday paper and read about himself.

So I can't tell you about his recent illness, the fright it gave all of us, the long stays in hospital, his slow recovery and how grateful I am that he's still the supportive, strong, silent type in my life. Oh, sorry Dad, got carried away.

Naturally, I then had to turn to the other Dad in my life, my husband, who will not be the recipient of a power tool, a piece of Ford or Holden merchandising, or a rugby almanac this Father's Day. He's just not that sort of guy.

"I thought I'd write about how you're not a typical Kiwi male - how you like opera and you're thinking of doing Pilates and how good that is for our kids because you are so much more than a man in a black singlet and gumboots," I said in my matter-of-fact tone, not thinking for a moment that he'd have a problem with that.

"No, not this week," was his reply.

I turned around to take a good look at him. He still looked the same. Tall, dark, dishevelled, lovely.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just you don't normally mind appearing in my columns."

"Yes, well, I'm just a bit over it. It would be fine if the person you wrote about was actually me, but it's not. It's an over-inflated, exaggerated version of me written by you to get a few laughs."

"Coffee?" was all I could think to say.

He had just returned from a weekend away with his mates. It was in the country, they all wore hats, he went for a walk and saw some piglets while they watched the rugby. They all thought about playing poker. And on his first night home I sensed a thread of dissatisfaction with some elements of living with women like me.

Just as women bicker over lunch about their useless men, men when they get together could possibly bicker about their women.

"I've got an idea," he said. "Why don't you write about how I always change Lila's nappies and you don't."

It's true. Every Wednesday afternoon when we look after our granddaughter, Lila, I have made a bit of a habit of whispering in her ear: "Tell Grandpa he needs to change your nappy," before sending her off down the hall while I take an "important" phone call.

"She's toilet-trained now, so that's just not current," I replied.

"Or why don't you write about how you were unable to bid on eBay for those Bob Dylan basement tapes I really wanted for Father's Day."

"I tried but I couldn't auto-bid like you do on Trade Me and I'm a very busy woman at the moment. Surely there are more?"

"Complete 4-CD Dylan basement tapes are extremely rare. I doubt we'll ever have the chance to buy another one. The boys suggested I let it drop, but I'm still a bit hurt."

Evidence there had indeed been some bickering about women. Well, about me.

"I could get you that iPhone you've been wanting, but apparently they're all crap and useless so that would be a waste of money."

"They're sold out," he replied, before stomping off to change Lila's pull-up. It would seem toilet-training has a fair way to go at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

And then I found out the real reason for his antipathy towards appearing in my column.

"I'm sick of meeting people who say 'Oh, we know all about you from your wife's columns; you must have the patience of a saint living with her'. Because our life is actually very normal, not the hilarious sitcom you write about."

I'm off to the hardware store to buy an angle grinder, the gun shop to get a deer-hunting rifle and the auto shop to get some Ford seat covers. I'm quite looking forward to a bit of normality.