Three pairs of jeans. He modelled them for me, and I stuck a pin into the back legs of each pair, and then cut off the excess length and pinned each leg up of each pair of jeans. And then asked him to try them on again to ensure I'd measured to the correct length. In each case a little adjustment was required, and then the jeans were briefly set aside.

They would take time to sew, and I had quite a few other routine household matters to attend to. I intended to leave them over a few days, to tackle them on one of my light-duty days around the house.

Yesterday afternoon there he was seated at the kitchen table, beside him my sewing kit, and arranged before him the jeans awaiting my attention. Only they were taking his attention. He was sewing them. I protested. He responded that I have better things to do with my spare time. That it wasn't my job to do such tedious work. That he was capable of sewing up his own jeans' pant legs.

Imagine; I've been labouring under the delusion for the past 58 years that such things did indeed fall under my purview. I was skeptical and also felt somewhat relieved. And he took his time, sewing them all. Had I been doing the sewing I would have had to ask him repeatedly to thread the needle for me when the thread ran out. I reckon roughly four threadings per pair of jeans.

He did a fine job. Perhaps taking inspiration from our younger son who, when he visits, insists on doing his own needlework, to repair a tear, a fallen button. Responding as my husband did on this occasion that he too was perfectly capable of doing such mundane, routine things.