WHISTLING was famously made sexy when Nastassja Kinski, otherwise known as Tess of the D'Urbervilles, had a close encounter with a strawberry in a certain Roman Polanski film.

To be fair, it was also given a bit of a boost by Lauren Bacall in To Have And Have Not ("You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow").

And yet, in spite of all that tuition from Nastassja and Lauren, I could never get the hang of whistling.

As a tomboy youngster, it was one of my great regrets that I could not manage to generate a piercing rallying call to assemble my pals for a spot of light tree-climbing or scrumping.

What made it even more annoying was the way that it seemed to be something that the lads could do with the greatest of ease... rather like peeing while standing up.

No, I could never get the hang of whistling, so all my life I've had to resign myself to humming along to my favourite songs.

Now, humming may be personally comforting, but it doesn't give you the sense of satisfaction that can be had from deafening half the neighbourhood and infuriating the rest.

How I envy my Other Half, who can not only boast a fine whistling technique, but who can summon up a veritable oompah band whenever he's got a tune on the brain.

Often he's not even conscious of the racket he is making as he bumbles about the house; nor is he aware of the effect that it is having on me.

Most of the time I can ignore it well enough, but just occasionally it gets a bit too personal.

You see, it's my theory that the tunes he's coming out with reflect his general mood, and can even provide a running commentary on his opinion of the state of our relationship.

Take one of his favourites, a tune that usually springs to his mind in traffic queues, during flight delays, or whenever he is fighting a losing battle with a tricky DIY project.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... the theme from Rumpole of the Bailey.

I'm not sure what melancholy instrument it is that carries this ponderous, mournful dirge. But whatever it is, he's got it off to a T, and can use his talent for mimicry to create the perfect mood music for a dismal afternoon.

He's also a whiz at imitating the theme tune from that other TV classic, Terry And June. This haunting melody generally graces our shopping trips around Sainsbury's or, even more pointedly, gets unleashed upon the air in any women's clothing store that follows the three I am allowed to visit when choosing a new outfit in his company.

When I challenge him to stop getting sarky, he acts all hurt and makes out he never even realised he was doing what he was doing, but I'm not so sure about that. It tends to get his point across, and the shopping trip doesn't usually last much longer after a burst of T & J.

The only thing I can cling to for consolation is a closer analysis of what it all means. That theme tune may suggest he feels, consciously or sub-consciously, that we are having a suburban, middle-aged moment.

But if he really thinks we are getting like Terry And June, I'd rather be Whitfield than Scott any day.

Updated: 09:18 Wednesday, February 02, 2005