By Emma Buckley-Hough, whose homemaking does not extend to taking the bins out

AS a modern woman living by time-honored values, I am of course subservient to men. After all, if left to my own devices, there is a high risk of a doily-related fatality.

While an excellent system, it is not without drawbacks. While my husband spends idyllic days at work, talking to men and earning money, I’m shackled to my cosy home making pies and occasionally putting a wash on. It can pall.

And while I need not trouble myself with unfeminine activities such as voting or having a bank account, I do find myself bored. After all, there is no possibility of performing my key wifely duties while he is absent.

For yes, while I look most wholesome, my evenings are dedicated to Biblically-sanctioned marital sin. It feels so wrong to have loving congress with my husband, but also so good.

However even the most carnal of sex lives is at risk of growing stale. Men expect more than nine minutes of clumsy thrusting nightly to feel satisfied. So I screwed up my courage and suggested opening up our relationship.

I could see his mind racing. Was I intending the buxom butter-churner from the neighbouring farm to join us beneath the counterpane? Or one of the ‘career woman’ harlots from his office typing pool?

Even better, I purred without permission before swiftly apologising. I wanted to open up our relationship to the manliest man of all, God Himself. The divine dick who knocked up Mary without even touching her hymen, meaning he must be one heavenly hump.

The horrified expression that crossed his face gave me pause. Men are sensitive creatures, and I had essentially just emasculated him with God’s celestial phallus.

Plus he no doubt had concerns about keeping up his end of the spitroast when there was a holy trinity at the other end.

I apologised profusely and we agreed on a compromise. He could go out and have dalliances with the flirty waitresses at the milk bar, and I was free to stay at home and think about the miraculous new invention of asbestos.

He’s been gone for a fortnight now. I might retire to bed with the book of Revelations. They always put the raciest smut near the end of bonkbusters.