Years ago as a young sapling in London I watched in amusement as an attractive young lady strolled past a multi-story building site.

The construction workers on the site took this as an opportunity to swarm to the edge of the railing and hurl various, er, "comments" at the woman as she walked on by, head down trying to ignore them.

I was relatively young and didn't really get exactly what was going on but I sensed it was some sort of fun game.

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I asked my mum what "phwoar" meant and why were those men with the yellow hats and big tummies whistling like that.

Mum then told me about "wolf whistles". You know what I mean. It's that sound your beloved makes just after you've emerged from the shower and just before your towel has covered all the wobbly bits.

So. That's a wolf whistle. A fun one.

But what I'd seen and heard that day back in 1968 was, my mum said, impolite and offensive.

Consequently I've never assaulted anyone with a "wolf whistle". As well as it being wrong, it's also because I can't whistle.

Naturally I've had a go but more often than not it has ended in an embarrassing pursed lips wind rush or even worse a saliva filled spray into the surrounding airspace.

That's all well and good if you are standing atop a mountain by yourself admiring the view. Less so if you're 18, at the pub in full face-to-face chat up mode trying to impress that hottie from the burger bar.

I've found over the years it's just better to leave it to that bloke in the gang who can shove a couple of digits in his gob and come up with an ear-piercing shrill sound that stops everyone at the function in their tracks and probably has huntaways for miles around wondering where the sound came from and whether they should go find some sheep to round up.

I'm sure you know the bloke I mean.

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If, like me, you are the one who is usually asked to thank the ladies in the kitchen, he'll be the bloke you nod to each time to get everyone's attention.

So as I say, I don't whistle.

But in case you're wondering I make sure Mrs P knows what I'm thinking when she gets out of the shower with my very own patented sultry eye contact and tiger purr.

Which now that I think of it does actually sound quite sleazy doesn't it? Wonder what my mum would think of that?

Anyway, the other day I've biked in to town in my Lycra bike shorts and matching fluoro T-shirt, parked the bike at the back of the office and headed off to get a caffeine infusion before town got too busy.

There's hardly anyone around as I stroll down the street when out of the blue comes a wolf whistle.

In a split second I've done two things.

First I've scanned the supposedly empty street to see if it's really directed at me.

Second I've sucked my belly in as tight as I can and tried to make myself three inches taller. And guys, don't try and tell me you haven't done the same just in case it is Angelina Jolie coming towards you.

So there I am trying to nonchalantly swagger down the street, turning blue through lack of oxygen, trying to make out it's no biggie, I get wolf whistles all the time, but secretly wondering where exactly this mystery woman who has been most un-pc towards me actually is located.

Just before I pass out, a bellow of raucous laughter erupts from between two parked cars and out steps Office Gay Guy.

Our OGG is a real hoot. We all love him.

Especially me. Particularly now.

I mean it's not every day you get wolf whistled is it?

It would be uncharitable to say I wasn't chuffed and maybe a little uplifted by the experience.

I've decided some time soon I'm going to return the favour. Obviously I'll have to practise a fair bit first though.

I don't want to spit in his face and give him the wrong impression.

■ 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 kevin.page@nzme.co.nz .