In which the Long-Suffering Husband takes bargain hunting to its logical conclusion

As regular readers will know, I am married to a hero.

The Long-Suffering Husband is not merely a domestic marvel, capable of performing household duties without constant supervision. He is also kind, considerate and unfailingly supportive of his wife’s more questionable ambitions.

He has, however, one terrible vice.

Shopping.

My husband is a shopaholic.

I realise this may come as a surprise. One generally associates compulsive shopping with women staggering home beneath mountains of shoes, handbags and garments they will never wear.

Not in our household.

Here, it is the husband who must be restrained from entering shops without a responsible adult.

To be fair, he is extraordinarily good at finding bargains.

Unfortunately, this is precisely the problem.

He cannot resist a bargain.

It doesn’t particularly matter what it is, provided the price has been sufficiently reduced.

Our bank accounts tremble whenever he ventures into a shop alone.

If his weakness were confined to books, clothes or electronic gadgets, I might be able to live with it. After all, books can be stacked, clothes can be squeezed into wardrobes and electronic gadgets can be hidden in cupboards until their purpose has been forgotten.

But his real passion is food.

Food!

The man is determined to feed us into an early grave.

And naturally, being the dutiful wife that I am, I feel obliged to eat whatever he brings home.

It would be terribly wasteful not to.

The freezer is permanently full, the cupboards are groaning under the weight of provisions and I am becoming increasingly convinced that my expanding waistline is entirely his fault.

I have absolutely no responsibility in the matter.

None whatsoever.

The other day, we went shopping together.

This, I thought, would be a sensible precaution. With me present, surely there would be limits to what he could purchase.

We came home with a sheep.

Yes.

A sheep.

Not a packet of lamb chops.

Not a modest joint for Sunday lunch.

An entire sheep.

Admittedly, it was no longer in a position to object, and it had been conveniently divided into manageable portions.

But still.

A whole bloody sheep.

There is a roast, a substantial quantity of ribs, enough stewing meat to sustain a small army and approximately seventy lamb chops.

Seventy!

I have begun to wonder whether we should invite the entire neighbourhood round for dinner.

Or open a restaurant.

At the very least, we ought to consider applying for agricultural subsidies.

The Long-Suffering Husband is, of course, delighted.

He sees an excellent bargain and a freezer full of delicious meals.

I see several months of culinary servitude.

Lamb roasted, lamb stewed, lamb grilled, lamb braised. Lamb with rosemary, lamb with garlic, lamb with mint sauce.

Lamb for lunch.

Lamb for dinner.

Possibly lamb for breakfast, if he has his way.

By Christmas, I expect to be bleating in my sleep.

There is, admittedly, one possible solution.

I could simply burn some of it.

Not deliberately, of course. That would be wasteful.

But accidents do happen in the kitchen, particularly when the cook is me.

And after seventy lamb chops, even the Long-Suffering Husband might begin to regard a charcoal-blackened dinner as a welcome change.

In the meantime, I shall have to find a way of keeping him out of the shops.

Perhaps I could hide his wallet.

Although knowing my husband, he’d probably come home with another sheep.

On credit.