As I sit here writing this I am nursing multiple injuries. Luckily my two index fingers which do all the hard work on the keyboard are in fine fettle but elsewhere it's a different story.
Firstly, I've got an egg sized lump on my shin. If I had to grade it I'd say it was one of those enormous jumbo eggs you see at the supermarket which makes you wince in sympathy with the chook who delivered it.
Secondly, I've got big dents in my pride and self-confidence.
Let me explain.
Mrs P and I are enjoying a weekend stroll when we happen upon some old friends we haven't seen in a while.
One thing leads to another and before you can offer the obligatory "we must do coffee some time" we are doing just that. All seated round a table. Having coffee.
And it's a good old catch up. We haven't seen the Travelling Twins in a long time so there are stories to tell, gossip to share, phone photos of grandkids to gush over.
All was going well until I got shot in the leg.
Well, not exactly shot, but subjected to a painful short, sharp, toe kick from Mrs P which may as well have come from a powerful rifle.
Now, we have been married a long time. I know something is amiss when I get a kick under the table. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Obviously with such lengthy experience comes a learned ability to control any outward expression of pain so I just smile and carry on with the conversation like nothing has happened – even though I'm quietly concerned my leg is hanging down useless beneath the table with multiple breaks and blood spurting out everywhere.
Later, as we drive home I ask why I was assaulted.
"You were just talking soooo much," says my beloved. "Nobody else could get a word in."
That's when my pride got dented. I think I dropped a "huff" on it.
I won't bore you with the exact details of the conversation but, according to Mrs P, I have a habit for such machine-gun verbal delivery. She says I don't realise it.
So there I am, driving home in a huff. Deliberately not talking.
Now I know I talk a lot. Always have. Always will. It is just that I find everybody interesting. I personally think life would be quite dull indeed if the art of conversation disappeared more than it already has.
But yep, I get occasionally I am prone to filling any brief lull in the conversation with another KP story. If only I could make a few bob out of it ...
Anyway. We're home and, still in a bit of a sulk, I tell Mrs P the car is almost on empty so I'll go and fill it up at the servo. Basically I need a bit of time to myself.
I'm still in a miserable fog as I pull in to fill up next to a huge, bright and shiny motorhome.
As many of you will know Mrs P and I are keen to experience life on the road at some stage so this appeals as too good an opportunity not to have a chat with the owner and get some tips.
So for the next 10 minutes or so my woes are cast aside as hopes and tales for a carefree life on the highways and byways of good old NZ are discussed.
I'm still buzzing as I get home, breathlessly relaying to Mrs P all the info I've just been given.
Naturally she listens but there's an expiry time on her attention span. She needs to whip into town to get something before the shops shut.
The obligatory few minutes of nodding done she's off down the path to the car. "Back soon," she says with a wave.
In fact she was back in seconds.
"I thought you were going to fill the car up?," she says, somewhat mystified the petrol gauge is unmoved.
It turns out I'd been talking to the motorhome guy too much, got distracted and completely forget to get the petrol.
• 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)