I have been suspecting for a while that my husband might be in the throes of a mid life crisis. It all started with the car. It wasn’t anything particularly flashy, and by that I mean it didn’t scream “I’m fifty and I have too much money and time on my hands”. It wasn’t a Ferrari, or a Lamborghini or even a Porsche. It didn’t have a convertible roof, or only two doors, and it didn’t sit scarily low to the ground.

It was huge though, a really big car, and for a family of three as we are, it was completely unnecessary. Our daughter doesn’t have so many friends that we need a seven-seat car. That unfortunately wasn’t the end of it. Next came the motorbike, and the accompanying leather jackets that made him look like a member of the Rolling Stones. And not one of the Rolling Stones at their peak, but the way they are now, a bit decrepit and slightly mummy-like.

Then came the thing that I hated the most, the mustache. He looked like a actor from the eighties, it was just atrocious. So when he shaved of the mustache, and stopped wearing the leather jacket around all the time, I thought things were improving. Oh how I was wrong.

My husband comes down the stairs his morning, props himself against the kitchen counter, and tells me he made a spontaneous purchase overnight and he is “really jazzed” about it. He bought wine barrels. He legitimately went online and looked up where to buy wine barrels in Melbourne at 1:30 in the morning.

So I started trying to wrap my head around what we would use the wine barrels for, what kind of “rustic” decoration could I create that would look good in the incredibly post-modern, interior designer curated home of ours. I was coming up blank. When I resigned myself to having to trawl Pinterest on my lunch break that day, he broke the second part of the news.

These wine barrels weren’t used, and weren’t for decoration. My husband, a man who strongly believes that whiskey is the only drink worth consuming, is going to age his own wine in oak barrels. Not only that, but our cellar, which is used to store priceless vintage bottles of wine I adore and intend to save until I am on my deathbed, will be converted (slightly) to accommodate these barrels and their contents.

This was all done without consulting me. It has come to a point where I have surpassed anger. If my husband doesn’t get back on track he is very quickly going to learn what it’s like to be in the bad books.