My old mate “Uncle Fester” rated it as both the worst and best moments of his year so far – opening the wheelie bin and finding a giant plastic bag brimming with his old tatty T-shirts.

Clearly, with stealth and cunning, his “She Who Must Be Obeyed” had executed a ruthless clean out, just as clearly without his knowledge or consent.

Talk about a close call.

Imagine if he hadn’t found them? And been able to retrieve them? And place them back in their rightful position, tucked away harmlessly in the bottom of his one allocated cupboard. All of that history, that nostalgia would have been erased in one single, callous, unsanctioned act of matrimonial vandalism. What ever happened to the wedding vows? For better or for worse? Share and share alike?

Fester is not a religious man, but in this instance, he recognised divine intervention. Treasured possessions, retrieved just in the nick of time.

But let’s not be so naïve as to treat this as an isolated incident. Let’s recognise that in the past 24 hours alone, there would have been dozens, perhaps even hundreds of wives across southeast Queensland, plotting comparable deeds of deprivation.

This is what wives do – it’s in their DNA.

In the dark recesses of their brain, they bundle up their least favourite items secreted in their husband’s wardrobe – tatty vestiges of the past, some providing uncomfortable reminders of who these fine specimens were before they got “hitched”. And then they purge – old rugby jerseys, T-shirts, tracksuits, caps, college kit – every beacon of bachelorhood they can find eventually goes in the bin, without warning, without compassion.

Typically it’s under the assertion of the garment being “in a state disrepair”, even “embarrassing”. Granted, the odd treasured item of clothing might have a hole or two. Or four. It’s probably also faded and misshapen. But in our eyes, that just means it’s comfortable and well worn. And comfortable + well worn = favourite. Quite possibly, “irreplaceable”.

Beyond comfort and familiarity, there are other advantages of retaining these relics, one being confirmation of status within the household.

“I don’t want anyone in the outside world thinking that my opinion doesn’t count,” The Pencil, another happily married college graduate explained. “Inside the four walls of her house, it’s important I stand my ground.”

The electric car convert, another practiced professional known for his predilection for “well-used” T-shirts, caps, sweaters, even lounge suits, talks authoritatively of the “five stages of men’s clothing.”

“There’s the wear in, the wear out, the wear at home, the garden wear, then ultimately, admission to the rag basket,” he explained, hastening to add that the “wear in” stage can sometimes take up to 15 years.

It was also possible, he said, through sleight of hand to make stages five and four interchangeable – retrieving rag bag items and reinstating them to garden wear, at least until they’re washed. “Then of course they vanish again,” he admitted. “The important thing – nothing makes it to the dreaded stage six. That’s terminal.”

The apprentice grazier, another mate whose wardrobe is at best “outdated” but more accurately a complete abomination, has recently noticed his wife’s purging practices spilling into his expansive footwear collection.

Joggers, boots, even his favourite ‘brothel creepers” (less than desirable label) have mysteriously disappeared without warning.

“Seriously, it’s outrageous – a horrible reflection on the authority of married men across the country,” he fumed. “Can you imagine if we went into one of their 25 shoe cupboards and started randomly selecting pairs of shoes that we didn’t approve of? ‘Sorry Darl, these have got to go. And those knee high boots …you’re far too old to wear those now. Out they go’. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to say that, but if you dare quote me, I’ll kill you! Just before she kills me.”

All good, Cowboy – your secret is safe with me! It’s important that we as married men, stand as one and fight this battle on a united front.

We do need to acknowledge, however, that we’re up against formidable opponents who will stop at nothing to have their husbands look presentable.

“What about my wife – she’s now taken to throwing out just one shoe,” the veteran mountain biker reported. “Talk about devious. But you’ll like this – I exacted revenge by marrying up an odd pair and wearing them out to dinner. That went down well! I can guarantee in future she won’t make the same mistake – only left shoes will be discarded.”

The one trump card that we, the collective of hen-pecked husbands that has not yet been tabled is of course the financial upside that comes from men wearing the same clothes they we did in 1993.

“Look at it this way honey,” I began, knowing I was about to press a well-worn hot button. ”It frees up valuable revenue for you to invest in outfitting our offspring. They’re naturally more image conscious and therefore, a far better investment than your slow-moving, middle-aged husband.

She didn’t look convinced. She glared at me with a distinctively 
“stage six” look in her eye. She wasn’t buying what I was selling.

At that awkward moment, it dawned on me, I’d better keep an eye on those wheelie bins on a Monday night.