Question is: How far does the situation have to deteriorate before they go on air urging us to panic? Now that would be some broadcast.

I can see it now. You're watching Britain's Got Talent when the picture fizzes, a coughing pig logo fills the screen and the continuity announcer pipes up: "We interrupt this programme for an important announcement."

The logo dissolves to reveal what may or may not be Prime Minister Gordon Brown. It's difficult to tell because the face on our screen is looking out from behind the rippled plastic facemask of a chemical suit.
The only sound for the first few seconds is heavy breathing. He sounds like Darth Vader.

The gloved hands open and the figure speaks. "People of Britain," he says, and it's clearly Gordon Brown, the disconcerting smile's the giveaway, like a St Bernard caught chewing your gran's false teeth.

"People of Britain, the time has come to panic. We've done the best we can but frankly this swine flu is just too slippery a customer.
"We've had the finest minds working round the clock on a cure but there ain't one. Their advice is to panic."

There then follows, in typically British fashion, a detailed graphic indicating the running order of the nation's panic.

It reads like a weather report: Brown shuffles in front of a map of the UK, pipes and oxygen cylinders trailing in his wake.

"We will be starting with mild fear in Scotland on the Monday," he says, sweeping his arm in arc over the Cairngorms, "building up to much wailing and gnashing of teeth as the day progresses."

Instead of traditional weather logos like the sun or clouds, the map features orange stick men in various panic poses: Man tearing hair out; man flapping arms like a chicken; man walking like an Egyptian. There's also a cartoon box of frogs (a universally acknowledged symbol of madness).

"Terror will work its way down through the North East," Brown continues, "where we will find spots of localised hysteria later that evening before full blown mayhem throughout the North West and Wales by midnight.

"The South will escape much of the histrionics, though an outbreak of uncontrollable screaming is expected over London early doors. In summary: PANIC."

The broadcast will close with Brown tearing at his facemask laughing like a maniac and shouting "I can't breathe, I tell ya. Medic!" before being wrestled to the ground. The picture fades and Britain's Got Talent resumes. Simon Cowell rolling his eyes, chewing on a Biro.

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And so the Michelle-isms continue unabated. My wife uttered these two over the last week.

Angry at the leniency shown to criminals on a TV documentary she said: "You know that really gets my goat up."

Commenting on a friend of a friend who'd been a bit dim, she said: "Well, she's not the brightest star in the box."

Or sharpest tool in the sky for that matter.

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While my wife's language skills can be questionable, her eye for bargain rarely is … especially when she's buying for me.

Take my work shirts. No considered perusal of the array of multi-coloured hand-stitched garments hanging in a high-street fashion store for me. Instead it's bargain buys from supermarkets. Available in any colour, so long as it's white. £3.50 tops. I'm convinced she buys them by the kilo.

I am the only person I know who wears shirts past their sell-by date. Naturally there is no skinflintery when it comes to herself.

Purchases for the house, however, are causing a problem. Does she spend big or bargain hunt?

Short of artwork for the walls, my wife produced her own. A painting of a coffee cup. It took her seven minutes. Within 10 it was adorning the kitchen wall.

It is from the minimalist school of art. Minimal effort.

"Hmm," I said. "You know what, I think it might look good … when it's finished."

"What do you know?" she said. "You'd have told Tracey Emin to make that bed of hers. You just don't understand art."

That was me told. Her cup daub remains. I should be grateful she doesn't make my shirts.