Decades ago, when even the possibility of one day developing a hole in my David Bowie inspired long and ginger dyed haircut was treated with derision, I recall watching athletics on television.
And not just any athletics. These were the Christchurch Commonwealth Games.
I was a fashionable schoolboy living in fashionable London. Me and my mates all had the fashionable haircut - dyed ginger, spiky on top and long at the back - and we all wore green parkas with a little bit of oh so fashionable fake fur lining around the hood - which we never put up because it would cover the hairdo.
We were all slaves to the big thing of the day. Whatever was popular, we were into it. Like athletics, which was a big sport back then in the UK.
Which is why, way back in 1974 just months before we moved here, there I am plonked in front of the telly watching the Christchurch games. And in particular a bloke named Alan Pascoe who had a bit of trouble with the hurdles.
If you recall Mr Pascoe at all it is most likely it will be for his shenaningans after he won his race.
The gold in the bag, he attempted to do a little celebratory jump back over the hurdles.
He failed spectacularly, twice, crushing the innocent hurdles in the process before merely pushing over the third one and jogging round it.
I distinctly remember thinking at the time that somebody in a shed in Christchurch had probably spent hours making those nice hurdles especially for the Commonwealth Games and now this legendary athlete had gone and broken them.
Anyway, the other day, in a town far, far away from London, David Bowie haircuts and the Christchurch Commonwealth Games that thought re-emerged.
I was standing in a queue at a supermarket at the time.
They didn't have what I needed and now all I need is to get out of the place.
At the checkouts are 1753 people with full trolleys. Naturally there are only five checkout operators. I head for the express lane. In front of me there are 132 people and one checkout operator.
All the checkouts are blocked and I'll have to queue or push past 193 people in the express queue (more joined the line as I pondered) to get to freedom.
So. There I am. Stuck.
I'm never quite sure what the laws of society dictate when it comes to queue jumping. As I'm considering my options I spot a hurdle, hence the re-emergence of the Christchurch memory.
It's not really a proper athletics hurdle. just one of those solid metal railings designed to herd the queue in one direction. Beyond the railing is a border guard, oops I mean the checkout operator and beyond her is freedom.
The railing is a bit too high for me to climb over at my age but I reckon I can get under it. So rather than wait for the queue to shuffle me to the front, I go for it.
Within seconds of getting down on my hands and knees I can tell I've misjudged the height of the bottom rail. It brushes along my back as I inch forward till it reaches my trousers. That's when something on it caught in my belt loop and I got stuck.
I felt how Alan Pascoe must have felt all those years ago.
OK I'd not just won a gold medal in front of 60,000 people and millions on telly. But getting stuck under a railing, on all fours in the supermarket in front of 246 people (queue kept growing) is similar in my book.
Naturally, in the position I was in, all my loose change picked that precise moment to try and make a run for it too.
I'm thinking the noise of the coins hitting the floor woke one of the queue inhabitants from their stupor and one bloke helped this silly old, embarrassed sod to his feet. I thanked him but didn't hang around to pick up the change.
As I headed for the car and the fastest route out of town one thought came to mind.
Maybe I would have been less noticeable if I still had a David Bowie inspired ginger and spiky hair cut.
• 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.