The tap had been leaking for weeks. At first, it was the occasional drop splashing into the plastic sink underneath. Soon, it became the annoying drip-drip. Lately, it is a steady thin flow of water being wasted away.

'The tap in the utility room is leaking. It probably needs a new washer', I say to Mr Husband, again. I have now uttered those words every day for the last month.

'Oh dear. Have you tried turning the knob off tight?' He replies, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Olympics. Again.

Sometimes, when I get angry, sarcasm helps me. 'No. I thought I'd open it a little to see how much water comes out.'

'Turn them off then', he says, patiently. Sarcasm obviously does not affect Mr Husband.

'Is that the extent of your contribution to the handling of this problem?' I ask.

'No. Of course not. Call a plumber.'

That's the city attitude again. Whatever the problem, an expert can come and sort it out. I wonder whether they do home delivery marriage counselling.

'I am not calling a plumber to change a washer. It's silly. Why don't you do it?' I know that talking to Mr Husband during the semi-final of Olympic table tennis is not a wise idea.

'I have no idea how to change a washer. Call a plumber.'

I resort to the countryside network of helpful neighbours. When you live in the middle of nowhere, changing a washer should be a relatively common skill to find among people who get up at five in the morning to milk the cows. I want to know how to deal with it, not get somebody to do it for me.

Ten minutes later, my neighbour's lovely father arrives, with a toolbox in his car. Stopcocks are found and dealt with. I hover as he struggles with undoing the tap's tight screw. I fish in my own toolbox and find the right spanner; when he takes a break to mop his sweaty brow, I turn the spanner anti-clockwise and release the rusty screw and inner part of the offending tap.

'Well done, girl', says the old man.

I can hear the voices of my children out in the garden. I have kicked all the them out, including Mr Husband: it's time he either learnt how to change a washer, or how to play with his boys without considering it a duty.

Once all the bits are back in place, the tap works beautifully and there are no leaks. I exchange a smile with the neighbour's father.

It's an odd moment to make decisions, but as I put the toolbox away and clear up the mess, I think that life is a little like that: if you have leaking taps, you can either let them leak, until the drop becomes a steady bleeding flow, or you can pay a professional to come along and do it for you; or you can - with a little help - face the leak yourself and sort it out. I choose the latter, and make another step towards the exit.