When I was at school I remember having to do an English comprehension exercise on an essay written by, I have believed for more than two decades, Noel Coward.

This seems unlikely in retrospect, because the piece was about a series of letters of complaint written by the author to a company regarding a fruit-filled pie.

The writer was concerned at the lack of fruit in the pie, and the article recounted his letters and the replies from the company. This now strikes me as not the kind of exchange that Noel Coward would have been involved in, but I must have got the name from somewhere, and when I was 12 or 13 I didn't know too much about Mr C.

The point of it all being that the company constantly referred to the writer as "Mrs" in its correspondence, apparently being of the opinion that only a woman would have an opinion about the level of fruit-filling in a pie.

In a similar vein, it appears that only a man may buy a kitchen, going off our current experience.

We approached a well-known High Street purveyor of kitchens with a view to having our existing facilities replaced. Well, when I say "we" what I really mean is the missus, Claire.

My general attitude to any suggestion of home improvements is to enthusiastically agree that it is a tremendous idea then do absolutely nothing to get it done, until such time as the simmering resentment at my apparent lack of activity spills over into a domestic squabble and I promise to get things sorted and then instantly go back to my default position of doing nothing.

Quite rightly fed up of this state of affairs, Claire got together some brochures, organised an appointment, went through each individual drawer and door with the chappie, arranged finance, signed for the kitchen, paid the deposit, arranged for the fitter to come and measure up and organised the start of the work. I fulfilled all my obligations by nodding in the right places and asking the occasional stupid question.

All well and good. Some people are born organisers, with the necessary get up and go to get things done. Others like to sit back with a cup of tea and a couple of comics and get around to it in their own sweet time (you are free to guess which category I fall into).

So all was going swimmingly, until the telephone calls and the written correspondence came in.

"This is a call for Mr Barnett..." began the answerphone messages. "Dear Mr Barnett..." started all the letters.

Now Claire, quite understandably, is a little miffed at this. She does all the work and is completely ignored while I make facile comments about how cool the computer software that allows the kitchen designer to draw a 3D plan of our new kitchen is, and I get all the letters and phone calls as though I am, in fact, the one who has organised everything.

Perhaps in the normal way of things it is the male half of a partnership which gets off his backside and sorts out this type of situation.

But surely in the 21st century, when women can vote and drive cars and buy their own booze and everything, it can't be beyond the imagination of a major national company that a female might lead the charge to buy a new kitchen?

Perhaps a new age of suffrage needs to be ushered in. Women, fight for your right to be recognised as equal members of society. Chain yourselves to your Agas and refuse to be moved. Just be warned: It'll probably be me who gets all the credit for your emancipation, on the grounds that I suggested it here and I am a bloke after all...