AS the general election approaches, the big news of the past week's campaigning hasn't been Trident, the economy, workers' rights or even the NHS. It's been about the division of labour in the May household, with particular reference to who takes the bins out.

Prime minister Theresa May plonked herself down on the BBC's One Show sofa, along with her financier husband Philip, to discuss very important matters with those probing, incisive, take-no-prisoner interviewers Matt Baker and Alex Jones. And the press, along with social media, went wild for the earth-shattering revelation that the Mays operate a "boy jobs" and "girl jobs" domestic policy, whereby he gets to take out the bins while she doesn't. But she does get to hog all the wardrobe space. The "girl jobs" of the May household weren't made specific – but it doesn't take supernatural powers to work out what they are likely to be.

For, despite their power and wealth, the Mays actually come across as a typical Mr and Mrs Average; and that means there will be fairly strict demarcation when it comes to household chores.

We already know that Philip does the weekly bin run. What husband doesn't? Doing the bins is simply not – by mutual agreement – women's work. In my household, I have taken the bins out on occasions which number in single figures. I do it only when my husband is away, grunting and moaning as I drag the blasted thing down the drive.

If he's away on a "full week", i.e. when a fortnight's worth of wine bottles and newspapers need depositing at the gates, forget it: they'll have to wait another two weeks. When my husband had a knee replacement a few years ago, I was solicitousness personified for the first week or so after he came home. Until a "full week" bin day loomed – when I took to accusing him of being a malingerer in order to get him to take said bins out. Consider it as part of your physiotherapy exercises, I cajoled him, kicking his crutch away. It worked.

So, while they do the bins, we do the shopping and the washing. And, largely, that's how we women prefer it. I don't know of any husbands who have managed to master the art of turning the dial on a washing machine to the correct setting. Unless you want three hours on a boil wash for a near-empty load of some socks and underpants, it's much safer to take on the job yourself.

Ditto the shopping, a chore which, when carried out by a male member of the species, is almost certainly guaranteed to lead to domestic discord on a grand scale.

They all have their particular shopping foibles, of course. My husband's is an inability to take shopping bags with him – even when prompted by a cry of "don't forget to take shopping bags with you" as he picks up his car keys – and an unfailing ability to home in on everything organic (and therefore ruinously expensive) on the supermarket shelves.

When I buy a chicken, I usually expect to pay about a fiver for it. When I last put a chicken on a shopping list for my husband, he came back with a scrawny organic thing costing the best part of £14. Along with some organic milk costing double the price of bog-standard semi-skimmed, and a loaf of artisan bread so expensive it nearly justified taking out a pay day loan. And three more bags for life, to add to the collection of roughly 300 languishing in the pantry.

Other non-negotiable male/female domestic dividing lines include stacking the dishwasher (boy job), emptying it (girl job), locking up at night (boy job), drawing the curtains in the morning and, crucially, tying them back neatly (girl job), losing the remote control down the side of chairs (boy job), finding it (girl job), failing to understand how series link on the Sky planner works (boy job), noticing the dogs' water bowl is empty – and refilling it (girl job), dropping underpants on floor (boy job), threatening divorce unless he picks them up and puts them in the linen basket (girl job), worming the cat (boy job), cleaning up dog muck from garden (boy job), erecting Christmas trees (boy job), untangling fairy lights (boy job), placement of Christmas tree baubles (girl job), leaving phone message unlistened to for weeks on end (boy job)... Boy jobs and girl jobs: they might be somewhat anachronistic in this day and age but they lead to what Mrs May herself would no doubt call strong and stable relationships.

Local newspapers are at the heart of their communities

IT goes without saying that we here at the Evening Mail actively support Local Newspaper Week, what with our being a local newspaper and all.

In these days of instant news headlines on social media, of internet-based news outlets – some of whose respect for the laws of contempt of court and defamation is sketchy to say the least – and of rolling television news, physical newspapers often struggle to keep up.

I have acquaintances who almost proudly tell me they never bother buying a newspaper – they get everything they need from Twitter and Facebook. Poor them, I always think, reminding myself to strike them off my Christmas card list.

The service good local newspapers provides in their communities should not be underestimated – from campaigning on local and thorny issues, to printing lists of prize winners, to informing the public responsibly about who's been up in court and for what, to printing photos galore of community events. It all matters.

Picking up a local paper to see who's doing what and when – and, if you're of a certain age, to see who's died and when their funeral is – is not an irrelevant throwback to another age. It's an important part of modern life.

As the digital revolution marches on, as computer systems are hijacked by ransomware, local newspapers remain at the beating heart of their communities. Long may they continue to do so.

New tree policy needs to take root

SAD news for arborophiles this week. Our green and pleasant land is becoming ever less green and less pleasant, as tree planting hits a record low.

Figures from the Forestry Commission show that a paltry 1,438 acres of new trees were planted last year, a figure so low that just three full-time workers could have planted them all.

The decline of our woodlands is a major concern, both environmentally and aesthetically. And it's not just the loss of our woodlands. Green spaces and tree-lined streets in our towns and cities are suffering, too.

Risk averse councils are far too quick to chop down often glorious trees, because of perceived risks of people tripping over roots and suing them, or of rogue conkers falling onto a child's head.

The news of the decline in our trees is particularly poignant at this time of year, as trees are at their height of their annual beauty. The horse chestnuts which line the A595 around Kirkby, for example, are a spectacular sight to behold.

Felling magnificent trees on often spurious health and safety grounds is an abominable practice, while failing to plant enough new trees for the future is scandalous. It is time for some truly green policies.

Louise Allonby