As I write this, Mrs P is having a little lie down in the room next door. The poor thing.
I must confess I'm hoping my "typing" - more akin to an extremely physical two-fingered assault of the keyboard – is noisy enough to stifle the laugh occasionally emanating from deep within my good self.
So let me explain.
We are fortunate enough to own a small house we have rented out for many years which we are now selling.
Now when I say "we" I mean "me". It's ours together but I've ended up being the one doing all the running around associated with getting it ready for, and actually on, the market.
And it has been a bit of a struggle I must say what with a fulltime job outside of my weekly ramblings and, er, well recovering from having that fulltime job outside of my weekly ramblings.
So, the other day when the real estate agent told us the power in the now empty house was off, I wasn't that bothered to be honest.
My interest was centred more on the couch where I intended to spend some of that day watching golf on the telly.
But when she pointed out having the power on was important to be able to show potential buyers the heat pump worked I had to admit it would be a good idea to get it back on.
There was also the fact there's a couple of things I need to do outside and power for my tools would also be helpful.
Begrudgingly I agreed to give the golf a miss and spend the day trying to get through to our chosen electricity supplier on the blower to sort it. I'm sure you know what I mean.
And this is where Mrs P entered the fray.
Now, I don't know whether I do possess a "sulky look". She says I do.
So, with what I presume was a rather large dollop of sarcasm aimed my way she said she would sort it while I, and I quote, "lounged around all day watching golf which was obviously far more important than selling the house and helping make our retirement years a little more comfortable".
I'm not sure how we actually got to that point from what I'm assuming must have been my glum expression but I didn't need to consider the offer long and within three seconds I was on the couch, remote in hand while she rang the power people.
And that's when the fun started.
Apparently, with the outfit we were dealing with you don't talk to an actual person. I think it's a robot chat thing. So Mrs P emailed them with our request to sort it out.
We'd had it cut off. We wanted it back on. Charge it to us at our home address. Blah, blah, blah. Simple.
Reasonably promptly they responded and asked for clarification.
Mrs P emailed them again and they came back saying they would get on to it straight away.
At this point Mrs P started to tell me off. It was, she said, "easy" and I just needed to exercise a bit more patience.
Thankfully the lecture was halted by a call from No.1 son now domiciled in the South Island.
Long story short, he's caught Covid and is isolating at home.
Mrs P, aka Super Mum, decides she'll save him the strain of cooking tea and order him a pizza and get it delivered to his house.
As she's going through the pizza process on her phone. The email on her tablet thing pings. It's the power people back with some confirmation.
But it seems they've completely misunderstood Mrs P's instructions and have initiated the cut off procedure - for the power at our own home address.
Frantically, she who only 10 minutes earlier was crowing about her success, is now emailing the power people back and trying to undo everything before they flick the switch and plunge our own humble abode into non-powered chaos.
And right in the middle of all this No.1 son calls back. Again.
He's been thinking about it – because it's obviously an important decision when your mum buys you a pizza, even if you are 35 – could we add a garlic bread to the order?
He's got a craving.
Now, whereas I might politely suggest he shove the request where the sun doesn't shine, all Mum can think about is her boy is unwell and needs looking after. And as we all know garlic bread makes everything better. Ahem.
There she is back and forth on the phone and tablet, emailing, talking to the automated service, tapping away like crazy for the next half hour. A picture of multi-tasking perfection.
I must confess I was impressed at how she managed to keep it together and not get it all mixed up.
Later, when the golf had finished, she joined me on the couch. It would be fair to say she was looking a little frazzled by her experience.
This was further exacerbated when No1 son rang again an hour or so later to inform us no pizza delivery had actually arrived.
It was about then Mrs P put her hand to her forehead in horror and then went to have a lie down.
She's not 100 per cent sure but she's got an awful feeling she may have arranged for the power to be cut off at No.1 son's new house in the South Island and sent the electricity company we deal with a Meat Lovers pizza.
I hope they enjoy the garlic bread too.