Kevin Page.
So here I am at a well known department store. Mrs P has disappeared into the bowels of the women's section to "try something on".
Experience tells me this could take hours. It could also take just 10 minutes which means if I go off for a stroll down the road looking for "man stuff" I'm likely to have to turn around and come straight back with the credit card.
I figure I'll put my hands behind my back and do the Husband Amble around the store instead. I'm sure you get the picture. Maybe I'll even stroll down the far end and check out the back corner.
I've always wondered what's back there.
It turns out its bed linen. Lots of it. Sheets to be exact.
And while I'm marvelling at the arrangement (which, in reality, is about as exciting as my pay packet) a woman crouching down almost unseen gives a cheery "hello".
It transpires she is someone I've met before. Once, maybe twice, through my job. So we engage in conversation.
Then it happened.
As polite convention dictates I am looking at her face as we speak when I notice on the outer limits of my vision her blouse has come undone, presumably as she got up from her crouch. Worse still there is underwear showing.
I am a gentleman so I resolutely focus on her face. But my peripheral vision has gone all independent on me and is sending me flashes of Bendon's summer collection.
It's like right now. I'm typing this looking up at the screen but I can still see the keyboard out of direct sight below.
Bugger. I went through my teenage years wishing, hoping and praying for such an occurrence without luck.
Now that I've reached a comparatively mature age - let's just say I've celebrated the 32nd anniversary of my 21st birthday - I don't know what to do.
Do I tell her? If I knew her well obviously I would, with some appropriately humorous comment to brush aside any embarrassment. But I don't really know this lady. It's likely I'll meet her again professionally (er, that sounds a bit wrong but I think you know what I mean) and she may feel uncomfortable.
And worse still the clock is ticking. Every second I delay my decision makes it harder for me to mention it. I mean imagine if I tell her after 10 minutes of chatting. She'll be thinking I'm some pervy toerag who made sure he got a free eyeful first and then embarrassed her.
Groan.
My angst intensifying but not wishing to be rude I decide to keep talking but look elsewhere. Trouble is all there is to look at is a boring wall of sheets. Now I'm coming across as rude. And I look like a dork.
There's no way out but to stammer an apology and say I have to rush off and find Mrs P.
Luckily she emerges from the changing rooms as I turn a corner and head towards her.
It's not exactly a run through a field of daisies towards each other with arms outstretched like in the movies but I'm pleased to see a familiar face.
She will understand the pain and anguish I've had to endure and make it all better.
As she gets nearer I can see she has a huge smile on her face. Obviously she's pleased to see me too. Wrong. She's actually laughing at me.
Apparently my fly is undone.
- Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share your stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz