I have turned over a completely new leaf. True. As of last Sunday, I have left behind my old indolent ways and become… a new man.

Just recently I read in our sister paper, The Times, 68 per cent of Maltese men think it is normal – and therefore acceptable – for men to participate far less than women in household tasks. Rubbish! Poppycock! Why should we alpha males be exempted from domestic duties?

Call it a new dawn; call it whatever you like – at last, at long last, I, Sylvanus have woken up to the necessity to help out more around the house. And naturally, my wife, bless her little calloused mitts, is over the moon.

Yesterday she informed me that, for the first time in our married life, she truly feels that the arrangement is indeed a true partnership, a union of equals. Aaw, isn’t that nice?

But I don’t want you to think I am just paying lip service to this equality malarkey, oh no… I’m going at it the right way and demonstrating to my long-term partner that I mean what I spout.

After all, when she married me she did give up a promising and lucrative career as a home help. Not that her chosen profession in any way influenced my decision to make her my wife, whatever people may have said at the time.

But you want proof, naturally. So here it is in all its gold-plated detail: a brief resumé of my new life as an ideal husband. Take mealtimes: in the bad old days BD (Before Domestication) whenever I finished my meal, I would push away my plate – without looking or caring whether in doing so I was in danger of knocking over the salt, sauce bottle or even – on a few occasions – my wife’s wine glass; before undoing the top button of my trousers and burping loudly.

Since I reformed all that’s finished. Now… before I shove my plate away from me I try to remember not to let it collide with any of the table furniture and… I now burp discreetly either to my left or right and not directly into my wife’s face.

But my new-found domesticity doesn’t stop there. One of the main bones of contention in our household, as I suspect it is in many households, was the thorny issue of, let’s call it… toilet manners. This is the predominantly male practice of leaving the WC seat up. This was further aggravated in our house by a certain absent mindedness on my part when it came to pulling the chain after use.

From last week, all that changed and I now perform both considerations after I finish using the facility… when I remember.

In the past I have been, in the words of my wife, totally useless when our kids were babies. And I’ll admit I’ve never changed a nappy or winded a tot. But now I have promised that if we have another kid, I will be fully committed to even the messiest bits of child rearing… honest!

Mind you, I think I’m pretty safe there since both my wife are way beyond the age when such things were possible. But it’s the thought that counts, no?

My new-found munificence knows no bounds; it even extends to shopping. Oh yes, I drive the missus uncomplainingly to the supermarket, then wait patiently in the car while she loads the trolley and wheels it to our vehicle. The last time we shopped I even opened the boot up for her to put the goodies into it.

But yesterday I outdid myself. We were faced with a tricky plastering job on the stonework just below the roof at the front of our house. I don’t normally like heights, but on this occasion, I didn’t hesitate and held the ladder for most of the time that my wife was up it plastering away. I only left her to it when my arms got a bit tired.

So yes, it’s all change chez Sylvanus. Erm, just one thing: I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to anyone. I may be diligently getting in touch with my feminine side and all that, but I don’t want any hint of this to get out to the boys down at the boċċi club.