It was not even eight in the morning on Easter Monday, and already I was filled with an ungodly fury aimed at my husband.

I was apoplectic, engaged in a rant so indignant I’m pretty sure I woke the neighbours.

What, exactly, had Harry done to elicit such a response? Had he been cheating on me, and fathered a love child? Had he spent all our savings on a rocket trip to space?

I’m afraid it was far worse than that: he was refusing to argue with me. I’d gone to him with a perfectly reasonable resentment, one that was more than worthy of an argy-bargy before breakfast.

A few days before, I’d explicitly asked him not to put my brand-new, bright pink t-shirt from M&S in the wash with my brand-new, bright green jumper from Boden, and most certainly not at any temperature warmer than 20 degrees – instructions that I could now see, from the murky, unwearable entanglement in the washing machine, had been ignored.

‘You never listen!’ I squawked at him, as he woke to the new day. ‘And now you’ve ruined both my week and my clothes!’

But my fury at the state of my new tops was nothing compared to my anger at what came next.

Because while one might have expected my husband to mount a spirited defence – accuse me of over-reacting, tell me to calm down, suggest I be grateful to him for doing the washing at all – I was left reeling when he simply shook his head mournfully, apologised, then shuffled off to the loo to carry on his morning ablutions as if nothing had happened; as if I didn’t, at the very least, deserve the satisfaction of winning a blazing row with him.

I stood in the hall shaking. I hate it when my husband does this: refuses to argue with me, that is. Indeed, I was still dwelling on his stubborn refusal to quarrel the next day, when I heard George Clooney gloating once more about the fact he’s never had an argument with his wife, Amal.

Speaking to Gayle King on her CBS show, the actor waxed lyrical about his marriage. ‘I remember we were here with you once before, and I remember we said we’d never had an argument. We still haven’t. We’re trying to find something to fight about ... I feel so extraordinarily lucky to have met this incredible woman. I feel as if I hit the jackpot. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think I’m the luckiest man in the world. So it’s great.’

It would be easy to feel resentful towards the Clooneys for their apparent happiness, not to mention their luxury 18th-century villa on Lake Como.

But I suspect that, given Amal is a world-class barrister who last year won the Legal 500 award for international lawyer of the year, it’s not so much that she and her husband don’t ever have arguments – more that, much like my husband, George Clooney refuses to get dragged into one, knowing full well he doesn’t stand a chance of winning.

Amal is, after all, a woman who has worked in the Hague, and gone up against ISIS financiers in an effort to seek justice for Yazidi women. She’s hardly going to be troubled by the prospect of tackling George when he’s forgotten to take out the bins.

I’m sure there are many women reading this who, at some point, have watched, gobsmacked, as their husband takes his emotionally stunted inability to have difficult conversations and translated it to family and friends as proof of a blissfully happy marriage devoid of conflict.

In this respect, my husband is just like George (now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write). When we met almost 15 years ago, in a pub after work, I thought I had encountered the perfect man: handsome, tall, funny, and in the midst of a heated debate with a stranger about electoral reform. Hot dang!

(I find there is nothing more attractive than a bloke who knows how to put someone in their place – there’s just something so deliciously self-assured about all that vim and vigour.)

It was a surprise, then, when about six months into our relationship, we started to politely disagree about what to watch on television – he favoured Game Of Thrones, I fancied The Killing – and he simply backed down and let me have my way.

There was no fight, no debate about the merits of dragons versus Danish detectives in natty jumpers (god, this ages us)... just the remote control, served to me on a silver platter.

‘I don’t do arguments,’ he told me, later, when I tried to pick a fight with him about his habit of cutting his toenails and leaving them on the bedside table. ‘They’re a waste of energy.’

I felt patronised, and wondered how that impassioned man from the pub seemed to have regressed into a boy with all the debating skills of a fifth-former.

Because, as I try to tell my husband, there is such a thing as a good argument. When it comes to relationships they’re the key to letting off steam.

Take it from me: the next time your wife comes to you spoiling for a fight, your job is not to shut it down (which will only make her more furious) but to go on the defensive, and deny everything she accuses you of.

Once you have done that, you must let her forensically skewer each of your denials, in however much detail she chooses. Don’t rush her, or try to interrupt her – you really need to allow her to feel like she’s let it all out, even if this takes several hours (or days).

When she’s done, you must immediately back down and admit all your wrongs, before finishing with an apology, and an expression of immense gratitude that you are with someone who has been able to show you the error of your ways.

Then, and only then, do you earn the right to tell everyone that you are lucky to be married to this incredible woman with whom you never, ever argue.

In this day and age, there are a number of ways for the rich and famous to confirm a romance. They can step out on a red carpet together, or they can go ‘Instagram’ official, as Liz Hurley and Billy Ray Cyrus did earlier this week, posting a loved-up picture of themselves on the social media platform. 

But the most convincing way to let the world know you have reached the stage of being a proper couple? Be photographed at the tills of your local Sainsbury’s, in the style of Louis Tomlinson and Zara McDermott. Now that is serious! 

On a trip to Cornwall last week, locals urged us to check the app from marine conservation charity Surfers Against Sewage before going to the beach. Apparently, there’s been an increase in water companies pumping overflow waste into the sea after heavy rain (a staggering 36 beaches across Cornwall were affected by pollution over the Easter weekend). 

One friend who lives in Fowey told me the problem has got so bad that she now slugs from a can of Coke after going for a swim, in the hope of killing any bugs she might have accidentally ingested (though claims that the fizzy drink can neutralise bacteria are, admittedly, disputed). Why is the Government not cracking down on this? It’s an absolute scandal.

Depressed teens and 20-somethings are getting round NHS waiting lists by turning to AI for therapy. In March alone, there were 16.7 million posts on TikTok about using ChatGPT as a counsellor. It’s a tragic indictment of society that this is how our young are forced to seek help. When is a problem shared not a problem halved? When it’s a problem shared with a bot, rather than another human being. 

How do you know somebody is a vegan? Because they tell you about it. But Lewis Hamilton might be slightly less forthcoming about his dietary preferences now that his vegan fast-food chain, Neat Burger, has been forced to shut most of its shops due to £8 million losses. 

As a passionate carnivore, I’ve never understood the appeal of pretend meat. Could this be the beginning of the end of the relentless march of veganism? Here’s hoping

Who else was cock-a-hoop over the Celebrity Traitors’ line-up? There’s Stephen Fry, Paloma Faith and hilarious Joe Wilkinson. And I can’t wait to see Celia Imrie in the castle. Indeed, the only thing that’s missing from the line-up is the ultimate celebrity backstabber: a politician!