Kevin Page laments singing in the shower.
I sing in the shower.
So does Mrs P. Not the same shower at the same time I hasten to add. Though I'd be lying if I didn't admit the little devil in me has occasionally considered that prospect rather appealing.
But yeah, nah. The construction work involved to accommodate a larger shower in our meagre-sized bathroom would mean we'd probably have to sacrifice the door. And probably the loo.
And seeing as I seem to be a regular visitor to that particular sector of the bathroom these days I'm not sure I can go without it. If you get my drift.
So a bigger shower is a no go. I'll just have to settle for belting out the classics on my own and leave the duets to another time ... and larger space.
Naturally I tend to go for uplifting, power ballads early in the morning. Typically as I sit here writing this I can't immediately think of any but I'm sure you know what I mean.
Mrs P on the other hand just goes for anything sung by Rod Stewart.
Ordinarily this would be okay, except Mrs P tends to sing, unknowingly, in an Indian shopkeeper accent.
Before anyone gets all huffy at the mere thought of me having a laugh at the expense of others I should point out I am a lover of all things New Zealand. Especially our multicultural society.
I can't be arsed with the negatives, particularly around immigration. Jump in and embrace it all I say.
For many years my neighbours have been an Indian family who are now happily Kiwi. A more delightful bunch you could not hope to meet.
We have seen the boys grow up, shared veges from our gardens, and me and the dad (ironically named Kevin too) have had good old chats about cricket, vegetarianism and his Sikh way of life over the fence.
And yes the aromas coming from Kev's kitchen when he knocks up a meal are to die for.
But I digress.
So there Mrs P and I were Saturday evening having spent a full-on day in the garden. I was cleaned up and showered and pouring a well-deserved gin and wine (not in the same glass; one for me, one for my beloved) while she was taking her turn in the bathroom.
Consequently I could hear a Rod Stewart favourite was in the early stages of formation with some humming going on.
As I listened a bit closer I recognised the tune. Tonight's The Night. Gulp.
Now if I was a trim, taut, terrific and stylish millionaire playboy living in a penthouse apartment in the middle of some swanky city and I had a hot chick in the bathroom powdering her nose I would have seen this as a signal of some upcoming, er, excitement.
I probably would have clicked my fingers to automatically dim the lights, clicked them again to turn on some mood-setting romantic music then casually misted a bit of ladykilling man scent over my designer stubble and then positioned myself all come-get-me-like to await my inevitable conquest.
But I'm not. Best I could muster at short notice was a candle and a bowl of salt and vinegar chips. Who says I'm not smooth?
And it was into such an environment that a freshly showered Mrs P sauntered, drying her hair and, by now, singing the words to Tonight's The Night. With an Indian shopkeeper accent.
I have no idea where her singing accent comes from. Nor does she.
We tried to change it but she ended up sounding Welsh!
In the end we just gave up. Admittedly it's hard to sing when you are giggling so much.
"It's just who I am," she says as we both manage to stop laughing long enough to take a drink.
And that's just fine by me, I've decided. She can sing in whatever accent she wants.
I'll just bring the chips and make sure the candle doesn't go out.