Ordinarily, and I don't mind admitting this, I find cricket as boring as watching paint dry. Always have.
I think it stems from my London upbringing. Cricket was a game played by the upper-class posh people we called "Nobs".
While they were wetting themselves over the gentleman's game we scumbag commoners were rushing round a football field kicking lumps out of each other - and finding it eminently satisfactory if I'm honest.
Anyway, on Sunday I bumped into a mate at Farmers and he asked me if I was going to watch the cricket World Cup final between New Zealand and England. He was somewhat shocked by my disinterest.
In my defence my brain and heart were thumping loudly and I wasn't thinking straight.
I mean, Mrs P was loose in Farmers while there was a sale on, she had the credit card and I couldn't find her. Enough said.
Naturally, I had done the thing we guys do and wandered up and down the rows of women's clothing, being careful not to pause too long in the underwear section.
Then I'd hovered around the changing rooms just in case she was in there.
Unfortunately I'd over-hovered and got a disapproving look from a shop assistant while she was gushing over a lady trying on a green dress.
To diffuse the situation I contemplated trying to be helpful by cheerfully saying "blue and green should never be seen" but I wasn't sure if I'd got the colours right so I just scarpered.
I was waiting at the main entrance when my mate sauntered up.
"Watching the cricket tonight?" he asked enthusiastically.
I explained such an occurrence was unlikely because my beauty sleep was far more important.
Then Mrs P appeared with an armful of items, the purchase of which seemed to me to defy all the usual laws of macroeconomics and even common sense.
I mean just because you save 30 per cent on an item - even one you weren't sure you needed - doesn't mean you have to buy it does it?
Having had years of similar shopping experiences with my beloved I knew resistance was futile so that night, after the mandatory period of feigned displeasure (Husband Code: Section IX, Paragraph III), I crept into bed safe in the knowledge that this sexy goddess next to me would also be wearing some very stylish clobber for the foreseeable future. Even if we were bankrupt.
Now I don't know whether it was the sound of my credit card laughing or what but something woke me up in the middle of the night and I couldn't get back to sleep.
So I got up and put the telly on.
I think the parlance of today is: OMG!!!!!
It was the cricket. And not just any cricket. This was cricket at its most riveting, skilful, nerve-tingling, gut-wrenchingly raw and emotional.
I don't mind admitting my heart was pounding in my chest for the final hour of this ripper of a game. The path to the loo became as well trodden as the bowlers' run-up as my nerves tickled my bladder repeatedly.
And at the end of it all we New Zealanders lost. I felt every moment of their pain.
I trudged disconsolately back to the bedroom where my yelling and screaming at the telly had woken Mrs P up.
As I delivered the news of our crushing defeat, coupled with a ball-by-ball description of the final moments of the greatest game ever played, she listened intently, somewhat bemused by my sudden conversion to cricketing fanaticism.
"Who would have thought watching paint dry could be so interesting," she said with a grin.
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to email@example.com