THE cheeseboard is on the landing bookcase, all my everyday reference books are in a box somewhere in the spare bedroom and I hate to think of the state of the bananas when I do find the fruit bowl.

The cat is AWOL and has probably fled next door; she hates upheaval. Actually, I'm in her gang on that but the humans aren't allowed to run away just because it's time to decorate the dining room.

Instead, I sat in a welter of old newspapers and cardboard boxes on Saturday morning, wrapping all the breakables very carefully and thinking that an eight-place-setting dinner service hadn't been one of our better moves.

Moves? Perish the thought of moving house if one room takes all this wrapping and packing even when we've just lifted all the drawers into the spare room, complete with contents.

Reaching for more plates to wrap, I'd got round to chanting my usual mantra ("It will look terrific once it's finished") when the doorbell rang. All I needed at that moment was a double glazing salesman or his mate with burglar alarms but, just in case ...

And on the step stood a smiling chap with a carefully arranged basket of flowers, clearly addressed to me. If there's a better chin-lifter than a complete surprise in the form of flowers, no-one's ever sent me one.

In an instant I went from a combination of grumpiness, panic and wishing I'd never decided we'd get the decorating done ready for Christmas, to feeling all might just possibly be right with the world.

I began to look on the positive side of things. Stripping wallpaper is a quietly moronic occupation, giving time to listen to music or a talking book. The long-lost Terry Pratchett had turned up behind the dresser. There had been only one large, economy size spider hiding behind the furniture. And it really would look terrific once it was all finished.

Such was the feeling of well-being that, when Sir arrived home to announce that a forthcoming entertainment meant he needed our cassette of Gregorian chant (don't ask!) and the cassette storage was in that obstacle course of a spare bedroom, I didn't blow a gasket. I just found it.

He wasn't the flower sender, it was a woman friend, but at least he is in the 7pc of men who do buy flowers. His gestures in that direction run to bunches of carnations, delivered in his own fair hand, with instructions to see if any of the stems have "slips" he could try to propagate.

That 7pc means there are 93pc of the men in this country who never pick up so much as a 25p bunch of daffs in spring.

Even the most macho of men are no longer afraid it will dent their image to be seen pushing a pram or playing with their children in the park. What is so scary about carrying a bunch of flowers or, if that is just too daunting, going into a florist's and ordering some to be delivered?

Gentlemen, if you want a calm and peaceful Christmas, abandon the 93pc and order that bouquet for next weekend now.