Me at home: ‘Honey, where’s the ketchup, did you finish it?’ Wife: ‘It’s in the fridge’ Me: ‘I looked, it’s not there’ The sound of pounding footsteps on a mission are heard marching to the fridge, whereupon an impressive and commanding opening swing of the door is given, the wife’s hand swivels like a whip, tip towards the now mysteriously reappeared bottle of ketchup and voila, there it is. I bow and kiss her backhand then meekishly apply the condiment. Occasionally solutions to our problems a...