US millionaire Dennis Tito wants to send two people on a round trip to Mars in 2018. Tim Dowling imagines his own trip to the red planet with his wife

Mars Mission seeks married couple: in space, no one can hear you argue

The Inspiration Mars Foundation plans to send a husband-and-wife team to Mars in 2018. They will travel in a tiny two-room capsule roughly 600 cubic feet (about half the size of a single-decker bus), and their mission will last 501 days.

Husband's log. Stardate 2018.45

Day 2. Things aren't going well. Wife spends the day continually asking me to review plotted course.

"It's automatic," I say. "The ship does it."

"Then why is Earth getting bigger?" she says. I explain that the screen has several magnification options. Later, when she falls asleep, I turn us around. 499 days to go.

Wife's log. Stardate 2018.51

Me: Why have you left the toilet seat up again?

Him: I didn't. It must have fallen up.

Me: It's weightless. It stays where you put it. Don't you understand anything about space?

Him: It's probably broken. I'll have a look at it later.

Husband's log. Stardate 2018.102

Wife claims I erased her logbook entry, the one where she accused me of using a week's worth of oxygen in order to sing all of Guys and Dolls. I tell her it was an accident, and that it's her fault for making an entry on one of my days. Then we get into a huge fight about how stardates actually work, whether it's a decimal representation of the proportion of the year elapsed, or whether it's just the date. Try to look it up on Wikipedia, but no bars on phone. Not speaking.

Wife's log. Stardate 2018.whocares

Me: Report. Asteroid damage to starboard flank, boosters at zero. Ship rotating out of control, off course, in the blank, forbidding void. Life-support systems dangerously low. Confirm.

Him: This is just like that time we drove to Wales.

Husband's log. Stardate 2018.178

Concerned about wife's current state of mind. Very moody, difficult to reach.

"Would you care for a glass of urine?" I say, politely.

"Is it your urine or my urine?" she says.

"It's a mix, I guess. And it's not really urine; it's just distilled from urine."

"No thank you," she says.

Wife's log. Stardate Whatever

Me: Every day is exactly the same.

Him: Any requests?

Me: No. Where did you get that fucking harmonica, by the way?

Him: It came with the ship.

Me: I hate you. I'm going to kill you when we get to Mars.

Him: Hang in there, sweetie. It's almost urine-o'clock.

Husband's log. Stardate 2018.244

Morale very low. Current position uncertain.

"Isn't Mars supposed to be red?" says my wife.

"It just looks red from far away," I say. "It doesn't look red when you're on it."

"You know what this looks like to me? It looks like Earth."

"No it doesn't."

"It looks like Arizona."

"You're just homesick."

"Look – a band of ape-like creatures on horseback is galloping this way! Ask them where we are."

"I don't need to ask. I have a map."