I'm ashamed yet honest enough to admit that I've lost many more arguments over the course of my lifetime than I've won. Particularly with women.
Take this morning.
A few weeks ago, Vanessa sent me into the loft (I hate the loft) to bring down various bits of clothing and so on in readiness for baby-to-be.
Whilst that should have been a straightforward job, it wasn't. In fact, I must have been up there for more than half an hour. And, in that time, I developed quite a detailed knowledge of what was there and what wasn't.
So, first thing this morning, when Vanessa announced that she could find neither hide nor hair of the newborn baby seat and that I'd have to return to the loft to fetch it, I protested - for the simple reason that it wasn't there.
I had been in the loft and knew it wasn't there; she hadn't been in the loft and knew NOTHING! The car seat must therefore be somewhere else.
"Where is it then?" responded Vanessa tersely. A fair question to ask.
Our house doesn't have much storage space, meaning I could check every possible hiding place in about five minutes flat, which I did. No car seat. I relayed the news to Mrs W.
"That's because it's in the loft," she declared through thin lips, nose in the air, arms crossed.
"Right! Right! I'll go into the loft, then. I'll get all dirty, it'll be a complete waste of time. But anything to make you happy, my dear!" I replied lovingly.
So, off I shot, clambered down into the cellar, got the ladder, lugged it upstairs and placed it beneath the hatch thingy, before beginning my ascent.
When I got to the top, I gently opened the hatch, pushed my head through the hole, turned to the left - and hit my head on the car seat.
Vanessa has gone back to bed and doesn't yet know that I found it.
Would you mind telling her?