There is a musical backbeat to my ramblings this week so feel free to hum if you don't know the words.
It all started with Mrs P and I intending to make the most of the weekend, seize the day, get out early and walk George The Dog.
Naturally, because it's us (or rather one of us, ahem), we had to have coffee first, put some washing on, fill the dishwasher, ring the kids, make a grocery list, vacuum the lounge and get the frozen chicken out of the freezer for that night's dinner before we could set foot outside.
I tried my best to assist so we could hit the road as soon as possible but at one point I found myself checking emails on the laptop.
Me being me, my fat fingers pressed some wrong button and before you know it I'm watching one of those talent shows, maybe X Factor or Britain's Got Talent, where some deluded couch surfer is convinced they are as good a singer, if not better, than Whitney or Celine.
I'm sure you know what I mean.
They usually get half way through before the Meany Judge stops things, discovers their parents are the only ones who think they are any good and then shatters all their dreams by telling them not to give up their day job.
I have to say, while devastating for the would-be superstars, I like that approach. Short. Sharp. Direct. No messing round. Don't waste any more time. Get on with your life. I'd like to think that's how I'd do it if I was the Meany Judge. Cruel to be kind.
Anyway, we finally get out to the park and, as George rushes to sniff the rear quarters of any other dog within a one kilometre radius, Mrs P and I find ourselves discussing these would-be singing superstars and whether we could do such an audition.
Now don't get me wrong. I greatly admire anyone with the courage to get up and sing in front of an audience spewing ridicule before you've sung a note. Especially if you are, well, terrible.
I couldn't do it and I am an exceptionally talented singer. I know that for certain. Mrs Chapman gave me a gold star for singing when I was at pre-school in 1968. I just don't like to talk about it.
Mrs P, on the other hand, has danced extensively, and has no issues with stage fright. To prove the point she launched straight into one of her old routines and started singing and dancing as we walked through the park.
Now, I cannot fault my beloved when it comes to dancing. As I say, she's done lots of stage work. Singing is another matter. She has an, er, unique style which I encourage her to keep under wraps. I mean, who wants to be bothered by all those money-chasing, soul-destroying record companies?
Obviously I thought she would stop as we approached some dog walkers coming the other way. She didn't.
So a kind of weird stand-off ensued: Me standing there 30 metres away from a stunned couple watching Mrs P, completely caught up in the moment and oblivious to her surrounds, sing and dance around me like she was in a trance doing some pagan ritual.
Even the dogs stopped sniffing each other's rear ends long enough to see what was going on.
Eventually the "performance" came to an end and Mrs P came back to full consciousness, somewhat red-faced it has to be said.
Luckily the couple opposite did not run for the carpark and safety but entered into the spirit of things and applauded. Which was nice.
As we walked on I felt the need to critique the performance. The firm, direct, dream-shattering voice of the Meany Judge came into mind for about two seconds before the possibility of cold wake-up coffee for life brushed it aside.
I settled for something simple.
"You were awesome," I said, giving her a hug as George shook us out of our brief taste of stardom and brought things back into the real world by finding another backside to sniff.
• 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 .