Last week I flew to Christchurch for a visit with the family matriarch and the issue of excess baggage arose.
It was only a four-day trip across a long weekend so I reasoned I could travel with the minimum of necessary clothing, a pair of sensible shoes and maybe just half the 4372 fish oil capsules I seem to have to consume each day to keep my joints working.
So when I booked online I went for the basic seat-and-no-bag option.
Actually, seat-and-no-bag isn't quite correct - you can take a carry-on bag weighing up to a certain amount.
Anyway, off I go to see Big Mama with my carry-on bag.
Naturally she was pleased to see me and five minutes after my arrival I find myself tucking into a massive ham, cheese and fresh bread extravaganza that would have challenged a hungry trucker or growing teenager.
And it didn't stop there.
There was a lot of chatting and catching up during my four-day stay and, as is tradition, this could only properly occur after a full-on breakfast which saw Big Mama rushing around the kitchen making sure "her baby" was properly fed and watered.
After that there seemed to be a very small space before the mandatory morning tea which again featured an assortment of culinary goodies, seemingly stashed away in a never ending sequence of corners in the pantry.
Now, I'm not going to bore you with the intricate details of what we ate over the four days, suffice to say we didn't go without at any stage.
I'd not seen Big Mama for a while so it seemed only proper we should go off on a little Tiki Tour adventure each day, which usually ended with us finding a little cafe to eat in and watch the world go by. Followed later by tea. And a little something during the evening. I'm sure you get my drift.
This was a pattern broken only by Big Mama's insistence on doing my washing and the mandatory hold-up-for-inspection-and-comment-while-folding-underwear phase.
I may have left home some 38 years ago but apparently it is the law: Mothers are required to tell you loudly if they think size 2XL is too small and underwear with Superman figures on it is inappropriate for a man in his sixth decade on this good Earth.
Like all good things the visit eventually came to an end and, after a cuppa and snack at the airport, I trudged back up the gangplank and onto the plane for the ride home.
I had a window seat and sat next to me was a bloke of similar age and stature.
I have a feeling he might have been visiting his mother too.
We were both wedged into seats that had obviously been made smaller since we were last in them.
I'm positive they were wider on the way down.
We are "overflowing", if you know what I mean, and doing a good impression of Siamese twins joined tightly at the shoulder with no chance of fitting even the in-flight magazine between us.
And I reckoned some kid had been messing around with the seatbelt too. It had to be lengthened out just about to maximum so it fitted properly.
In all it was a pretty uncomfortable flight back to the land of sensible dietary habits and the love of a woman who likes Superman.
I'm was massaging my arm and mentally penning a letter to Air New Zealand as I walked to the car.
It seemed to me it's not just about the weight of your luggage.
It applies to people too.
• 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 firstname.lastname@example.org .