Back in 1987, after dinner one evening, my husband David dropped something of a bombshell. We’d been discussing how to sack the latest under par nanny when I noticed a determined but slightly anxious look in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter? I asked. ‘Well,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been thinking about the boys. They’re growing up a bit and I’m sure it’s fine to have a baby looked after by somebody else, but I think children need to have a parent at home. ‘They need to be guided by our morality and supported by our level of education. So, yes, I’m saying I think our children should have one parent caring for them at home and it’s clearly not going to be you.’ In other words he was prepared to stay at home and be a house husband. Wow! That was a shock. Fathers who were primary carers were far from common back then. I reeled a bit, thought a bit, then said, ‘OK’. Our sons were four and nearly one at the time and both adored their dad. He knew how to cook, wash, iron, play any sport the boys fancied and do maths brilliantly – all the things at which I was a complete washout. It would mean I could do the job I loved passionately – I’d just taken over as presenter of the BBC’s Woman’s Hour – while he did all the things he wanted to do, including the domestic chores. This could work for both of us, I thought. So I agreed. More than 30 years on, I acknowledge that, as Dolly Parton puts it in a new record dedicated to her husband who died earlier this month aged 82, ‘I wouldn’t have been here, if you hadn’t been there.’ The ballad describes how Carl Dean, who was married to Parton for 60 years, comforted her and pushed her on. He was never part of her public life, never basked in her limelight, but stayed home, quietly getting on with his own business. He was always there for her when she came home. Her song will resonate with any woman who’s embarked on a big career with a husband supporting her at home, someone who has enabled her to do the long hours and hard work necessary to be a success. Sadly, Dolly and Carl did not have children – her endometriosis forced a hysterectomy when she was 36 – but her lyrics will strike a chord with working mothers whose stay-at-home partners hold the fort. Finally, some recognition for the beleaguered house husband, so often thought of as a pinny-wearing weakling dominated by an overbearing wife, or at least they were in less enlightened times. Nothing could have been further from the truth in David’s case. He was a strapping rugby-playing naval officer when I met and fell in love with him. In 1983, when our first son was born, he decided to leave the Navy – he couldn’t bear the long trips away in a nuclear submarine, knowing his boy would be growing up without him. At first, we had a wonderful nanny, Jeanne, so David began to make his way in civilian life. But after son number two was born in 1987 and Jeanne had left to train as a teacher, David made his radical-for-the-times suggestion. We’d moved to London to accommodate my years presenting Newsnight, then Today and Woman’s Hour. I was more busy than I’d ever imagined possible and David hadn’t found anything he felt passionate about. He was an electronic engineer with a strongly artistic side, but nothing seemed to compare with his passion for being a father. And so began his 20-year tenure as a stay-at-home parent. It wasn’t always easy. My father, for one, was horrified by the idea. An engineer also, Dad had been a little ashamed when my mother had taken a part-time job during my teenage years. ‘What will people think?’ he had asked. ‘They’ll think I can’t afford to keep you.’ When it came to getting his head around David looking after the children, I tried to explain that times were changing and asked what had been the point in educating me if I was to be stuck in front of the kitchen sink. But my father never got it. It was a man’s job to be the breadwinner. Sadly, our choice damaged the relationship between the two men I loved. David faced dissent at the school gates as well. He’d return home from picking up the boys, furious at the unpleasant glances directed at him by the women in the playground. ‘They look at me as if I’m a paedophile, there to abduct one of their precious kids. Then they go into a gossipy huddle, inviting each other round for coffee. No one invites me.’ It must have been a lonely life. He did some work from home, making cartoons and comic strips on the computer, but, as any full-time parent knows, looking after the children and the home is hard work. I, meanwhile, swanned about at the BBC, coming home with stories about interviewing whichever prime minister happened to be in power at the time. I was written about in the papers and invited to parties, plays and shows. David avoided any publicity like the plague and rarely wanted to accompany me to the theatre or to social events. He couldn’t stand to be called Mr Murray – particularly as that was my first husband’s name that I’d kept for professional reasons. There were some aspects of our set up that were difficult for me, too. At times I felt jealous of his proximity to our sons. I missed them and tried always to make it to parents’ evenings and, as often as possible, to be there to read the bedtime stories. Becoming the breadwinner was the hardest and scariest part. I had to pay the mortgage, the school fees, all the groceries, the holidays and any trips the boys wanted to go on. I was paid a reasonably good salary – not as good as my equivalent earns today – but it was an insecure career. As a presenter you were not employed as a member of staff. We were effectively freelance, assured of work only for the length of our contract. Mine were two-year contracts and each time the renewal date loomed, I would have sleepless nights, worrying that I’d be sacked. David had infinite confidence in my ability to survive, which was a comfort and, ultimately, he was right. Now in my sixth decade of a rewarding career, there’s no denying: ‘David, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been there.’ Abby's had the last laugh, Ben How humiliated Abby Cohen must have been when the infamous Strictly curse took away her husband, the former rugby player Ben Cohen, and landed him in the arms of the ‘Siberian siren’, Kristina Rihanoff. He left Abby after 23 years together (and 13 years of marriage) with six-year-old twin daughters and she openly expressed her heartbreak. Last week, Ben and Kristina announced they have split, citing money worries. Abby, now happily in a new relationship, simply posted a shot of herself at the races with her pooch, Branston Pickle. It’s always worth remembering, in the choice of dog versus man, the dog is the reliable one. Who’d pay £695 to see Denzel? Going to the theatre is an expensive business – up to £200 for a good seat in London. On New York’s Broadway, they’re charging $900 (£695) to see Denzel Washington play Othello. A play with Kieran Culkin would cost you $724, or $600 with George Clooney. These prices are madness and must not come here. Theatre is too important. It brings people together to share something wonderful. We must not be priced out of the market. Why my next dog’s a whippet The classic picture of a tough Yorkshireman shows a flat cap, a pigeon shed and a whippet – a common little dog. Who’d have thought Miuccia, an Italian whippet, would be best in show at Crufts? Nothing common about her. She’s absolutely beautiful. Hmm, maybe my next dog... Smacking is back on the political agenda with doctors calling for a ban. They say scientific evidence shows it causes harm and is of no benefit. I’m instinctively opposed to violence and would ban it but I’d dispute the claim that it is, as they say, without ‘any positive effect’. I remember sitting on a bench in Barnsley bus station, aged four, kicking the wood over and over. Mum’s requests to stop were ignored. A hefty wallop on my bare legs stopped it. I never did it again and after all these years I haven’t forgotten it – and don’t resent her for it. Maybe a smack does work. I eat avocados because they’re supposed to be good for you, but now Alan Titchmarsh says we should all stop. Most of the avocados sold here, he says, are grown where rainforest has been felled to accommodate them and then they’re flown long distances. Disastrous carbon footprint. What’s more, I don’t even like them.