Daniel Craig didn’t call, in case you were wondering. Based on last week’s column, I am sure that, like me, you thought he might pick up the phone and give me a ring. Sigh.

Please understand that I do realize he is married to a Hollywood goddess. I respect that. Surely you know that I meant no impropriety, as I am a happily married woman myself. I simply wanted to interview him (blush). I am a reporter, after all. It is in my job description.

The Carpenter found last week’s column amusing, particularly the last line, “Daniel Craig, call me.” My spouse finds my public displays of insanity entertaining, even when I admit to admiring another man. There is a security in our relationship that goes very deep, you see. We respect each other entirely too much to mess about. Geez, we’re too tired to even bother to try. Perhaps he assumes nobody in his right mind would have me. I might need to ponder that further.

Take last Friday, for instance. I had left work early to succumb to the head cold that had rendered me dizzy and incoherent. I threw on the cool mist vaporizer, pushed saline mist up my nose and dove under the warm duvet of my bed, where I enjoyed a feverish nap and some hallucinations we’ll call dreams (I should never take head cold medicine). I left the family to fend for their selves for the night. I was taking care of myself for a change.

When I woke up a few hours later, I was a sight to behold and I knew it. I stumbled out of my dark cave to find the Carpenter relaxing on the sofa, happy in his solitude. I couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t hear me coming down the stairs, so he was startled when I said, “Did Daniel Craig call?”

The Carpenter looked up to find me standing in my hot pink shapeless nightgown with my work socks pulled up high and my hair stuck with sweat to my pasty-white face. My nose and upper lip were a shocking shade of raw red and my watery eyes were slanted into puffy sockets. We’ll call this my zombie come-hither look.

“Oddly enough, no,” he said slowly, unable to take his eyes off me. Oh, I was a sight to behold.

“Really? I wonder why. Who wouldn’t want all this?” I said, sweeping my hand along my bulging physique, dropping the fist full of used tissues I held in my hand.

“I look hot, right? You think so, don’t you?” I coughed.

The Carpenter blinked hard. I could tell he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry, stuck in the reality that this was our life: flannel, work socks and nasal spray.

It’s a good thing love is blind. Any relationship that can survive the perils of cold and flu season, while raising kids who bring home a whole host of icky germs must be able to laugh and love no matter how ugly the flannel pyjamas are, or how vile the phlegm-filled coughs can be. “In sickness and in health” isn’t just a tag line. It’s a deal breaker.

So, never mind Daniel Craig; don’t call me. I doubt you could finish a bathroom renovation any faster than the Carpenter can. That’s why I wanted you to call, honest. But if you can finish the bathroom, then call me. Soon.