This year, with restrictions around the Covid-19 virus preventing us going out and socialising, I've become even more of a hermit than usual.
Don't get me wrong, I've not pulled up the drawbridge entirely but, like many of us wary I'm sure, I've curtailed my exposure to the outside world unless absolutely necessary.
Having worked alone from home now for a good chunk of the last decade it hasn't been too stressful a change.
In fact, the only downside to being based at home much of the time is you get too comfortable in T-shirt and shorts so when you do have to stick on a pair of longs for that meeting with the tax people you feel decidedly more uncomfortable than you did when you got the invitation to attend in the first place.
On the plus side, not going out much has meant I've not had to shave. At all. This is definitely a bonus.
Long story short, I hate shaving. I would risk nicking myself with a rush job and leave it till the last possible moment if I had to go to a meeting or a function. Lockdown was a blessing in that regard.
The upshot is I now sport an awesome (I think) facial rug that I can hide behind.
The downside is I've got one rogue hair that pokes that little bit on your nose under the left nostril.
When it first happened I thought I'd been stabbed and quickly cut the offending thin piece of sharp wire away.
Comfort was restored until a few days later when it reappeared and stabbed me again. This time I got Mrs P in for a consultation and she cut it off.
But it kept coming back. Each time quicker and sharper than the last. Each time I had to make a booking for Mrs P to tackle it with the scissors while I moaned and groaned and winced and wailed.
Eventually she joined me in the moaning and groaning - about my wincing and wailing over a pesky hair - and we settled into a bit of a routine.
I followed her into the bathroom the other day just after she'd woken up. The hair was back and it needed removing. Again.
I sat on the nearest available item with a seat, if you get my drift, while she sighed and said she'd just wash her face first.
As I sat there whimpering, waiting for the suffering to end, she stood in front of the sink, turned on the tap and rinsed a flannel. Then she wiped it across her face.
As she finished and put the flannel down a puzzled look came over her and she reached up to touch that little bit on her nose under the left nostril.
Because sitting there, contemplating its next move, was a bloody great big cockroach!
There's little chance of adequately explaining what happened next. I'm sure you can imagine it.
Let's just say there was a lot of moaning, groaning, wincing and wailing.
And as it went on I let the shiver run all the way down my back and started to think maybe a little pesky facial hair wasn't so bad after all.
• 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 email@example.com (Kevin Page in subject field) .