I can't comment on what goes on in other households, but in mine, there is what could rightfully be called a division of labour; that is between my wife and myself.

The actual dividing lines are a little fluid. We both have full-time jobs, although Beth's work schedule is a bit less demanding than mine, and that has a certain impact on who does what. For example, Beth handles most of the cooking chore, but it is a fact that I lived on my own for several years before we were married. In such circumstances, one develops a certain amount of kitchen savy or one starves. I handle most of the laundry work, a tradition begun in the early days of our marriage when we lived in an apartment. I'm not sure how I initially got the assignment that persists to this day. I suspect it had something to do with knowing where the laundry room was, having a back strong enough to lug a bulging laundry hamper from the 14th floor to the first and after so many years of apartment living, I knew to make sure I accumulated enough quarters by the time I ran out of clean socks.

I also keep the household books, lest you get the idea that I take all the soft jobs in the house.

Owing to the fact that Beth is usually home in the evening much earlier than I, it has sort of become part of her job to check the mail in the evenings when she gets home, which she normally does. True, there are times when she doesn't. For example, if it's pouring rain outside when she gets home, she'll spare herself the trip across the street to the super mailbox, knowing that her brave, strong, stupi . . , er . . . indulgent hubby is not afraid to brave the elements for a good cause, like her comfort (I'm going to be in so much doo-doo when this appears in print).

But it was a nice evening this past Thursday night, I arrived home somewhat later than expected, after a day that had contained a bit more frustrations than I needed. Thus my mood wasn't the greatest. Beth called out something to me, but the combination of a couple of factors, including me dropping a couple of packages I brought in, prevented me from hearing her. In fact, it took a couple of repeats (which did little to relieve the feelings of frustration I had been feeling) before the poor girl was able to convey to me the message that she had not gone for the mail when she got home.

No matter, I was a nice evening, and a walk across the street was certainly not going to kill me. I went out for a stroll, humming something aimed at improving my mood (I think it was the theme to A Clockwork Orange).

I obtained the day's proceeds from The Royal Mail, briefly studied the envelopes, and walked back to my house with news for my spouse.

"You picked the wrong day to not get the mail," I told her as I walked in.

"What is it?" she asked, her facial expression showing clear alarm. From her point of view, I guess the news contained in the mail could have ranged from a petition signed by our neighbours demanding that we move because of the way we maintain our lawn, to foreclosure on our mortgage (highly unlikely) to my being drafted, meaning Beth would be responsible for doing the laundry.

In reality, the mail that day contained good news, contained in an envelope I pushed close to my wife's face. It was clearly addressed to her, and the markings on the envelope left one no doubt that the correspondence had come from the government of the Dominion of Canada. It was her income tax refund.

The really good news is I got mine too. All of a sudden, it wasn't such a bad day.

I always await this annual event with a certain amount of nervousness. There is always some pressure on the ordinary taxpayer to get the income taxes done on time, like by the end of April. In my case, the big problem is actually finding the time to do it all. Now I didn't leave it all to the last minute this year, although I was working on the forms in the last week before the deadline, and if I recall correctly, I put Beth and my taxes into the mail with about 48 hours to go before we were in violation of some statute. But in that rush, isn't there always the danger of a mistake, that might have the federal revenue officials up in arms, howling for some form of retribution? Thus I tend to stew, figuring I'll know all is well once I hear from Revenue Canada. In years when I figure I'm owed a refund, having the cheque in hand is a pretty good indicator.

In keeping with good practice in such situations, I consulted my copy of the return to make sure the cheque was all I had hoped it would be.

Ironies of ironies; the government people indeed spotted a mistake in my arithmetic (my late father would have given me a proper bawling out, had he known). "We have corrected your total payable because of a calculation error," read the accompanying letter. And the result was I came out ahead. Thus the cheque was larger than I had anticipated, by the princely amount of $16.46. There's nothing quite like found money, is there?

So now we come to the age-old issue; namely what to do with this new windfall. Should I put it aside for my retirement, or blow it on some extravagant spree, with all the extravagance that 16 bucks and change will permit. That kind of money won't buy a new washer or dryer.

I guess I'll have to think about it.