Do you know what, I couldn’t care less if Scott Morrison doesn’t know how much bread or petrol or milk costs.

The Prime Minister’s admission at the National Press Club that “I’m not going to pretend to you that I go out each day” for essentials generated a ton of bad-look commentary. “An appalling cop out,” trumpeted one columnist. Yeah, yeah, predictable rant etc.

I’ve been shopping for groceries for 1000 years and would struggle to give exact figures for basics. Harder, too, if you’re a bread flibbertigibbet happy with olive sourdough from the local market one weekend and Bakers Delight sliced white the next.

It’s not that I have rivers of cash, more that because I buy basics every week I don’t constantly do micro-breakdowns. It’s the big number at the end I keep in my head, with a “must do better” or “enough left for a bottle of wine” little voice.

I also couldn’t care less Morrison tried to claw back some ground by having a frontbench flunkey reassure voters the PM’s wife, Jenny, would be across prices. I’m not seeing that as playing the 1950s wife card but more that the Morrisons run their household like many of us.

Partners play to their strengths for a happy home. I hate putting out the rubbish, so I don’t do it. My husband rarely cleans the bathroom. I don’t do the laundry. We fight over the ironing because we both love it. He makes lunch. I do dinner. I shop. He washes the car. It’s not sexist, it’s sensible. So Morrisons, you keep doing you.

For me, the shopping question that tripped up ScoMo is a classic gotcha. Four months out from an election, it wasn’t worthy and neither was the Today show’s encore when Anthony Albanese – a single man with no daughters – was quizzed on the price of tampons.

Instead of bowling up an old trap that ignites tabloid outrage, journalists need to dig harder and be better, so we can find out the really important stuff about whom we’re voting for.