As you may be aware, Mrs P and I are awaiting the arrival of another grandchild. This has resulted in a great deal of upheaval to our lives, so much so I am beginning to wonder if it's my beloved who is about to pop and not the Boomerang Child.
Attending a late-term scan like I did last week was an easy job – and all is well, thank goodness – but it seems our very own house is filled with baby stuff at the moment.
We are a bit like a warehouse.
Late-night stumbles down the hall to the loo come with the feeling at any stage I may have to flatten myself against the wall in case I get run over by a forklift going about its duties.
Now, I'm not a completely miserable old sod. But when it comes to the square footage I've worked hard for over the years being consumed by piles of baby clothes, toys, cots etc. I have had to put my foot down.
Carefully, of course, in case I hurt my foot on some of those wooden building blocks in that box that's too small for them all behind the door.
Anyway. We had a chat. And it seems I may have got the wrong end of the stick. Or as She Who Must Be Obeyed put it I wasn't listening when it was all decided.
It seems we are keeping all the baby stuff at our place for a couple of weeks while there's some necessary last-minute work taking place at the home of Boomerang Child and her fella, Builder Boy.
Presumably, once it's done we'll hire a team of mules, Sherpas, a big elephant, three container trucks and a crane to take it all back.
Apparently, we talked about it.
In all honesty, I don't recall doing so but experience has taught me not to stress. It's only baby stuff and it will be gone sometime soon. Besides, maybe I can use the same argument one day when I come home with a new set of golf clubs.
But I digress.
So we've got all this stuff at our place and the other day Mrs P is going through it.
It seems friends and family have come to the party too and made or gifted various garments for bubs when she arrives.
There's also a rather large colourful tea cosy- (remember them?) shaped woollen hat thing, which I'm assuming someone has just plonked in a pile to get rid of and it's ended up with us. Naturally, because I'm a bloke and we have to do such silly stuff (it's the law), I put it on my head and start prancing around the room for a laugh.
It turns out the "hat" is quite warm. Instantly toasty, in fact.
I agree with Mrs P it would be ideal for "in-house" use on those cold late autumn/winter mornings. You know what I mean. The ones that are creeping in a bit lately as winter peers round the corner. Those ones where it takes a while for the first cuppa of the day to get into your bones.
The only thing is, this hat is a fraction tight.
No problem for Mrs P, she'll give me a quick haircut – which, with my ever-enlarging forehead, really is a quick one – and it'll fit much better.
So, she goes off to find the implements and I take the regular stool to the bathroom where the tiled floor is easy to sweep clean after.
Now, I don't know about you dear reader, but I feel it is my duty to do crazy, impromptu stuff to promote a smile and some laughter to help keep the spark going in my relationship with the woman I adore. I mean, why wouldn't you?
With that in mind, I strip off - completely buck naked – and sit on the stool, waiting for the shocked look on Mrs P's face as she comes through the door.
Regular readers of my ramblings will know this is not the first time I've engaged in such behaviour. Mrs P is pretty wise to it by now too. You could say, ahem, she's seen it all before.
And so, when she comes through the door, there's barely a hint of surprise.
Just a brief glance, accompanied by a smirk and a priceless comment. "I didn't realise it was THAT cold this morning."
• 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 (Kevin Page in subject field).