Fiona McCade: Pig of a moment when romance died

THE moment I stopped being the romantic lead in my own life is etched on my memory forever. It happened a couple of years ago. We were at a wedding and my husband yelled across the room to ask me if I wanted any dessert.

When our relationship was young, he would have called out: “Hey, love!” or perhaps “Darling!” Maybe even my name, if he was feeling respectful (and/or harbouring a grudge), but what he chose to call me that fateful day showed me beyond all doubt that the ravages of time, and a child, had put our marriage irrevocably past the honeymoon stage. Because right there, in front of practically everybody we know, he shouted: “Hey! Mummy Pig! Do you want some profiteroles?”

Of course, nobody got as far as the “profiteroles” bit. All they heard was a man calling his wife “Mummy Pig”. And it hurt.

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It hurt because what a couple call each other is usually an accurate barometer of exactly where they are in their relationship. “Mummy Pig” had been a private joke between us in the days when Junior was obsessed with Peppa Pig, and it was clear that, since my husband resembled Daddy Pig (and he really, really does. Still.), I must be Mummy Pig. It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever, but it wasn’t hurting anyone – until that awful moment when my love, my beloved, my darling, my sweetheart, basically told the world that we were past the passion and frighteningly close to cocoa, pipe and slippers.

He may as well have hollered: “Oi! You! Female flatmate! Bearer of my children and fellow watcher of kids’ TV programmes!” So crushing was the careless familiarity of it all.

So, I wasn’t too impressed when I read a survey this week that claims many women consider the worst thing their partner can possibly call them is “Babe”.

I can understand why people wouldn’t want to be called the same name as a pig – believe me, been there, done that – but although “Babe” has an awful ring of Essex and Abigail’s Party about it, is it really so bad?

It sounds to me like some women are well and truly spoilt. Other names that make up the rest of the top ten no-no’s of male-to-female endearments include, in ascending order of repellence: pudding; sexy pants; babycakes; ducky; muffin; baby girl; baby doll; snookums and sweetcheeks.

Granted, some of these are toe-curling (although not as toe-curling as “Mummy Pig”, but I admit that I need to let that go).

However, it’s worth bearing in mind that, in their own, hopelessly inadequate way, these names are meant to convey love, so let’s not sniff at that, shall we?

It’s also interesting to note that the top ten favourite pet-names for women are as follows: 1) gorgeous; 2) beautiful; 3) lovely; 4) love; 5) darling; 6) honey; 7) sexy; 8) angel; 9) dearest and 10) precious.

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OK, I can see what’s happening here – on the whole, women want their wondrousness to be spelled out nice and clearly, and under no circumstances do they want to be compared to complex carbohydrates – but “sexy”? As an everyday, throwaway expression of affection? Really? As in: “Would you like me to pick up your haemorrhoid ointment while I’m out, Sexy?”

I’m confused. Although many women seem happy to tolerate saccharine expressions of fondness such as “snowflake”, “sweetie pie” and “buttercup”, they’re appalled by nicknames like “sweetcheeks”, “honey bun” and “angel pie”.

I’m suddenly starting to feel quite sorry for men, as they’re constantly walking a terrifying tightrope of intimate etiquette.

According to this survey, “angel” is good, but “angel pie” is bad; “honey” is acceptable, but “honey bun” is not; “sexy legs” will get you a kiss, but “sexy pants” will get you kicked out. It’s just too exhausting.

I’m beginning to see why those dumb, but unique names like “Mummy Pig” stick. However excruciating they are in public, in private they’re safe and comforting, reflecting a shared understanding and togetherness. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. And anyway, if he’d shouted out: “Sexy legs!” would that honestly have been any better?

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