It seems as I have got older, this has carried on into my personal life.
Let me explain.
Earlier this month Mrs P and I celebrated an anniversary. I thought I was well ahead of the game when I rushed out and bought her a little something to remember that wondrous occasion when she said "I do".
I have to admit I was a little pleased with myself. In recent years I've left it till the last minute before securing the anniversary pressie. But not this year.
When the big day rolled around I pulled out the little gift – a small container of face cream made with the milk of unicorns, caviar and gold dust judging by the cost – and handed it over.
Of course, it's not really made from unicorn milk etc but the advertising that hypnotised me into buying it suggested it was the greatest thing since sliced bread and would "uplift, rejuvenate and leave a natural glow".
So, there I was as proud as punch watching my beloved unwrap the gift when she said: "You do know our anniversary is tomorrow, don't you?"
Naturally, I was taken aback and proceeded to argue my corner. Unsuccessfully, as it turns out.
The confusion arises in our particular case because we were married in Rarotonga, which is one foot over the international dateline, depending which way you go first.
That means when it's the 2nd here it's the 3rd there and vice versa, or something like that.
Complicating matters further is that my brother and his wife have dibs on the 3rd already and I thought we had decided not to infringe on their happy day and just accept the 2nd, if that makes sense.
Anyway.
The whole thing left me completely confused, much the same as when I recently tried to put my Covid-19 passport on my phone.
So, I did what any bloke does when he discovers he is in the wrong and can't blame someone else like the voices on satellite navigation - "it's from overseas and they don't know New Zealand back road shortcuts" - I turned the telly on and hoped it would all go away.
It did for a while.
I found myself very quickly engrossed in a DIY programme involving buying and selling houses.
Naturally, like everyone (and don't pretend you wouldn't), I would like to be a gazillionaire without doing too much work so I was completely immersed in the "how to do it" tale.
So much so that when Mrs P emerged from the shower, clad only in her bathrobe, complaining of an aching back and leg muscles and asking if I could rub some of her antiflam massage cream in, I was a little peeved, particularly as I was going to have to leave the telly programme at an important point to rush off to the bathroom and get it.
It was then Mrs P hypnotised me - by removing her bathrobe. Gulp.
The rest of the process is a blur. I recall galloping to and from the bathroom and then carefully applying the product to the achey bits of my beloved. The telly programme was well and truly forgotten.
Later that evening, as I sat there still a bit dazed, but delighted God had chosen to invent the female form and not just stick with Adam, Mrs P wandered in with a now half-empty container of her uber-expensive face cream.
She may have even suggested, in a rather accusatory tone, I had mistakenly used half her new face cream on her back and the, er, fleshy bits at the base of her spine if you know what I mean.
There was even a suggestion I may have been distracted and not paying attention when I rushed off to get what was supposed to be the massage cream.
Well, I don't know about that.
All I could offer, with a shrug of my shoulders, was a philosophical comment.
At least it would "uplift, rejuvenate and leave a natural glow" to her bum.
