If your spouse is a lush, and you're invited to this house for brunch, this is a nightmare. You can just see it - a mimosa or two, or three, then he gets giggly and wanders into the kitchen to see if there's s'morra dat champagne there - he always pronounces it Tcham-pag-knee, which makes your back teeth ache - and then he gets up he bumps this thing and the whole damn shelf collapses.

Sure, you could leave him, but then no one would pity you anymore. And that's important to you, isn't it? Isn't it?