I MADE the mistake of telling my husband that I'm entering a poetry competition.

He doesn't like poems (or any literature other than the Formula One magazine) and finds it a constant source of bafflement that anybody would read or write them through choice.

"I just don't understand it," he said apologetically, after reading the final draft of my masterpiece.

"It's just a random assortment of words. And it doesn't even rhyme. Could you not turn it into a nice short story that I can understand?"

I wasn't overly surprised at his reaction.

This is the man who likes to mangle the English language wherever possible ('detached rectum', anyone?) This is the very same fella who once complained that some noisy children were 'high on kites' and says things like 'a bird in the hand is worth a gift horse in the mouth'.

Most annoyingly of all, he thinks the words 'affect' and 'effect' are basically the same.

When it comes to language and literature (especially poetry) he's a heathen of gargantuan proportions.

"I've laboured over each and every syllable, writing and re-writing them again and again," I explained, pompously.

"I've agonised over symbolism, structure, pentameter and alliteration, carefully choosing metaphors and similes that convey the very personal feelings I've written about."

He gave me a blank look, and said: "Maybe if it rhymed? Or was less like a poem and more like, I don't know, a short story..?"

I decided to try a different angle.

"There's also a pretty good cash prize..."

He suddenly looked more interested - and before I knew it had grabbed a pen and paper and had begun to scribble furiously.

I later offered (slightly smugly) to be his critical friend, expecting to be presented with nothing more than a rude limerick.

Unfortunately, to my immense surprise, his offering was quite good.

In fact, it was decidedly better than my own (with, thankfully, not a detached body part in sight).

Next week I'm off on my holidays - and I can only hope normal service has resumed by the time I get home!