WE wanted to do something conventional. You know, like husband goes to work and wife – that’s me – keeps the home clean and takes care of the children. Fine.

So the letter announcing my resignation as visual presenter landed on my personnel manager’s desk.

Don’t look at me, Mr Personnel Manager.

I am acting under the instructions of the commanding officer (my husband), who convinced me that working mothers couldn’t give all the love in the world to the children.

Of course, I believed him. What do you mean I didn’t reason with him enough? Besides, I’m not the orator – he is.

I have been staying home much too long. Now that my two daughters no longer need me to wake up at 3am to feed them, I want to be back at work like my college friends, who take home handsome salaries.

And what has he got to say about this?

“Well, that’s very sensible of you. Frankly, I find working women more attractive and intellectually stimulating.”

Wait a minute! Wasn’t it you who said many moons ago that working women were selfish, individualistic and the cause of family disintegration?

“Gee, did I say that? Well, I guess you have to forgive me, I was green then.”

It’s very cute of you to admit the slip of the tongue.

But we have two children now and had it not been for my nose, even my mother would have mistaken me for Roseanne Barr!

Now you tell me working women are more attractive and intellectually stimulating! What do you think I have been doing for the last six years – only manicuring my nails?

So he’s willing to make amends by giving me the leads and the moral encouragement to make it easier for me to find work.

There were phone calls to make, letters to write, interviews to attend, clothes and shoes to match.

And I had to camouflage my marvellous frame and the weight I had acquired over the years from walking between the bedroom and kitchen.

Next came the decision to accept the job offer from, incidentally, Mr Personnel Manager-turned-Managing Director.

You should have seen the look on the children’s face when I broke the news during dinner.

Then the whisper from the youngest – “Who’s going to help me read my Ladybird books in the morning?” – followed by that from the older girl: ”Will you still be at work when I get home from school?”

He sipped his coffee in silence.

Dinner over, I performed the final ritual of the day, washing the dishes and scrubbing the kitchen sink.

The children were in bed. I walked to the bed. There he was, arms wide open, his eyes looking straight into mine.

“Loving you is stimulating enough,” he said.

Come the next day, I was back preparing his breakfast. Sorry, Mr Managing Director. He’s a much better orator than I am.

Besides, the girls need me. As for him, let’s just say he loves me deeply enough.