You will be able to pick holes in this story.
This is because the clothing which kept me warm last year, and which has been residing in the dark recesses of my closet for going on nine months now, is no longer up to the task.
I discovered this just the other day when the temperature plummeted and I looked out to see winter parked in the driveway.
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It was, said Mrs P, the best time to pull out my winter gear and see if anything needed replacing.
So I did. And it did.
Of chief concern was the large hole in the elbow of my favourite sweatshirt.
I am sure you have something similar somewhere in your closet. You know what I mean.
It's your favourite piece. You wear it all the time when its chilly.
When you first tried it on it spoke to you, offering that instant rapport you just don't get with that good pair of black socks you trot out for weddings and funerals. This item fitted like a glove, not too short or long, just enough room for expansion yet close enough for that warm, toastie feeling, and to top it all off it didn't look too shabby either.
Yep, you and your garment were going to be good friends. Of course you'd have your up and downs - getting oil on your sleeves is never good for any relationship - and then there was that terrible incident in the winter of 2015 where you caught the arm on a nail.
That was a long night of waiting to hear if it could be saved.
Luckily the experts said it would pull through but it was the start of a hole. It would only get worse over time. Best be prepared for the end and enjoy your last remaining time together.
Sigh. Sorry. I'm getting emotional.
So the time has come for the winter sweatshirt to be replaced.
Now, in our household a special trip to purchase menswear is a rarity indeed.
Don't get me wrong. I have some nice, smart clobber for when the occasion demands but in the main you'll find me somewhere in the middle of the field when it comes to interest in clothing and indeed going shopping for the same.
Luckily, Mrs P and the Boomerang Child (she always comes back) have been auditioning for the NZ Olympic shopping team for more years than I can recall so I knew they would take charge and assist me in finding a replacement garment.
Shopping with these two is akin to standing in the middle of a hurricane.
Basically what I do is walk into the shop, stand in the quiet peaceful epicentre and let them go whizzing around the outside, bringing me items they thing I'll like.
If I'm lucky they'll pick something that suites my taste – which I'm told is basically Boring Old Fart - but more often than not it seems to be a case of them trying to turn me into some super trendy dude who looks like he should be riding to work on a skateboard rather than a sensible four-door sedan with good mileage per litre.
I'm sure you know the type.
Anyway. I'm standing there in the eye of the storm, with the girls running all over the place, and in the far corner of the store I can see a sweatshirt. It's remarkably like the one I've just buried . . . but without the hole in the elbow.
Done. That's the one I'm going to buy. Just as soon as the hurricane dies down and these two accept it's time for reality to set in.
At the moment the Boomerang Child is indicating that may be a way off yet.
"What about these," she says, standing in front of me holding up a pair of jeans I'd never, ever, ever, ever, ever look at let alone wear.
And what style are they?
Those ones you see people wearing today with ready-made holes in the knees and thighs.
Groan. I told you this story was full of holes.
■ 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 .