THE WIFE FACTORY

IT WAS my hilarious fiancé’s idea. He’d been watching neat-freak Marie Kondo’s TV show and complaining about the state of my flat. Much to his dismay

I don’t own an iron. Or a kettle. And keep only nail varnish and vodka in my fridge.

“You should go to wife school,” he joked, googling it as we laughed. I don’t know who was more surprised when several options appeared.

I barely need detail my objections to wife school. The very concept feels regressive and sexist. What does it even mean to be a “wife” in 2020, when I earn more than my fiancé does?

Going to wife school would’ve remained a silly joke if, secretly, I hadn’t also had my own worries about my suitability for marriage. With our wedding approaching, I’m increasingly anxious about what “forever” really involves – and what becoming a wife means for me.

Does craving security and romance while wanting a big party and meringue dress mean I’m not a proper feminist? Mostly, I worry marriage means losing my own identity. When people joke that being a wife entails having my husband’s dinner on the table with a ribbon in my hair, I’m not laughing – that’s exactly what I fear.

Maybe a “wife school” could teach me something about love as well as marriage. I decide to give it a go.

I find out that in Russia wife schools train women (and gold-diggers) to charm men, bag husbands and be perfect