'Did you prick the potatoes?' Jamie says, busy fixing the fly wire in the bedrooms. We should call it mosquito wire - and there's cases of Ross River fever in town, so you can't be too careful. I'm cooking him potatoes for dinner because he really, really fancied baked potatoes. After a day's painting, I suppose he deserves it.

'Oh goodness, no, why would I do that that?' I said, the sarcastic wife coming out. 'Please tell me how to cook potatoes!' I said. 'Since you're such an expert at cooking!'.

This reel on Instagram basically sums it up here. From which I quote:

Husband: 'Do I peel the onions?'
Wife: 'Have you ever eaten onion skin?'

Which has, of course, become a running joke.

He panics slightly, thinking the potatoe will explode in the microwave (where I semi cook before roasting), before he reaslises that I do have things under control, and that he should stick to measuring, cutting, and screwing, before I throw a hot potato at his head.

'So, babe', I say, mandolin'ing some cabbage to add to the slaw, 'is this coleslaw okay?'

'WAIT WHAT'S THAT GREEN SHIT!' he squeals roars.

'Parsley and garlic chives' I say, not mentioning the thin slivers of fennel.

'AAAAH' he wails. 'I'M GOING TO DIE!! JUST SMOTHER IT IN MAYOINNAISE!!'

Now, of course he's joking, but he's riffing on the stereotype of him growing up in London eating potatoes topped with baked beans and cheese. And lots of mayo, likely. Gross.

'The butter - I've put garlic and capers in it, that okay?' I ask him, pretending he's the boss.

'IT LOOOOOKS LIKE FLIES IN THE BUTTTER! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?'

'You are just damn lucky you're getting potatoes' I say. I'm not a fan. I'm usually tortured with them every time we go 'home' to England - potatoes in bubble and squeak for breakfast, potato salad for lunch, potatoes with roast - mashed and roast, usually.

'Can you put them on now?' he says, checking the I-Solar app 'because we're making electricity right now'. It's three o'clock. Who eats potatoes this early?

'I really need to tell Hive what you're really like' I say, thinking of all the compliments he gets for his DIY prowess and slave labour hard work.

'WHAT DO YOU MEAN?' he replies. 'I'M BRILLIANT!'

And he is, really. He can even put them together.

At least brilliant enough for my baked potatoes, River-stylie.