Alex and I were at a garden centre recently when we heard this exchange.

“Tony, what on earth are you doing?

“I said the pink ones, Tony, piiiinnnnkkkkkk.

“No you idiot, that is red. Not pink. God – can’t you do anything right?”

Okay, so it wasn’t so much an exchange, as death of masculinity by verbal firing squad, which was capped off by catching my eye and rolling her own.

“What we have to put up with,” she said.

I couldn’t agree more.

Strangers are often unwilling witnesses to couples’ dirty laundry and it is never cool.

But that is another topic for another day.

As the woman clucked after poor, colour-blind Tony, I turned and asked Alex if I ever came across to him like that.

“No,” he said.

“And I would never let you.”

And it is as simple as that.

Alex is a man’s man.

He doesn’t wear pink shirts and is happiest in a pair of surf shorts and a well-worn T-shirt.

He gets his hair cut because it is too long, not to keep it in a style.

He drinks beer and eats carbs.

He slaps on a moisturising sunscreen, but only because his pop had skin cancer.

And he never has a problem with calling me on my crap.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

During my hussy period, I dated men who were almost made to order, sensitive, new age guys.

We did what I wanted to do, we discussed our feelings. We shopped and ate out at trendy restaurants. They would steal my moisturiser and shampoo. Each outfit choice had to be discussed.

They did their best to be my perfect man, my friend, my lover, my equal.

And I was so bored, I broke up with every one of them.

I think we have done a lot of men a disservice by demanding they become like us, only with penises.

Snags are all well and good on paper, but seriously – who would you rather have in the room when the mother of all spiders appears?

The guy who is afraid of insulting your femininity, or ruining his own manicure or shoes in taking care of it?

Or the guy who doesn’t even flinch when the spider goes all nature doco on him?

Don’t get me wrong, Alex scrubs up mighty fine when he decides to.

He also has no problem with buying me tampons, providing a shoulder during a soppy movie or following me around the shops while I look for the “I’ll know it when I see it” item.

But he wouldn’t stand for me berating him in public. He wouldn’t even let me do it in private.

Sometimes, usually when I am under the control of Aunt Ruby, I can get a little … snippy.

Which he deals with to a certain point.

But I am left with no illusions as to when I have crossed the line into uber-moo-hood.

Just as I would never stand for him to talk to me like that.

Seriously – even Mr Darcy refused to take crap from Lizzie.

And that was a guy created, like, 100 years ago.

Back at the garden centre and the uber-moo took a phone call on her way back to the register with the pink plant.

“Sweetheart!

“No, no, nothing important. Tony is finnnnally going to do something about that patio. Oh? I’m about five minutes from you.

”God no, I don’t want to put you out. Tony can drop me off and then come pick me up when he has finished pottering around the garden.

“We’ll have some drinkees and then he can come pick me up again. It’s not as if he is doing anything important. Great. See you soon.”

The sparkly lid of her mobile had no sooner closed then she told him to hurry up because Julie was waiting.

And instead of telling her to jam it, Tony apologised and rushed out to the car with all six bags.

I could get a man like that.

They are called staff.

Seriously, some men need to grow some balls and realise that being equals and treating your partner with respect doesn’t mean becoming a doormat.

And some women need to let them.