It all started with a scream.
Naturally, because that the way these things always pan out, I was engaged in some hugely vital reorganisation of shed space at the time and, as any like-minded bloke will understand, couldn't literally just stop to go see what all the fuss was about.
Read more : Cockroaches becoming harder to kill
The second scream, delivered at a higher decibel rating, featured my name so I knew it was important and my important stuff would have to wait.
I rushed inside to find Mrs P cornered. By a cockroach.
Now this thing wasn't exactly holding Mrs P prisoner. There was ample room for her to make good her escape and head for the border. The difficulty was it was positioned on a beam in the ceiling above our bed.
Step forward Sir Kevin. Protector of Fair Maidens and Knight of the Garden Shed, although night "in" the garden shed is probably more apt, especially lately with the reorganisation project in full swing.
Forward I stepped and immediately spotted some difficulties.
Now any cockroach wrangler, particularly those like me with an abject fear of the hideous creepy crawly, will know the best way to get rid of them is to fill your hand with toilet paper, sneak up on the offender and speedily "pluck" him from the wall being careful not to crush your paper encased thumb and fingers as you do.
You then run to the loo, chuck the paper in and flush.
Job done you can allow yourself the shiver you've been holding back and then try to breathe again before you turn blue. Or maybe that's just me.
So that's the usual plan. This time I could see issues.
The cockroach was directly above the bed. Below it was Mrs P's special arrangement of 127 pillows, four teddy bears, a couple of duvets and a sleeping George The Dog. Perfect hiding place for a cockroach that escaped the usual "plucking" by diving off the ceiling.
I decided to bide my time and see if the cockroach moved. So I stood there, poised, with my plucking hand encased in toilet paper.
Twenty minutes later the only thing that had moved in the bedroom was George. He woke up, looked at me with a hand wrapped in toilet roll, gave a bored yawn and went back to sleep.
Okay, round one to the cockroach. I'd have to do it the hard way.
The hard way basically meant moving the bed and all its extra bits and pieces from below the stubborn critter clinging to the ceiling. What makes it worse is that medical reasons mean we have to have a special bed. It's heavy and difficult to move.
Fifteen minutes later the exercise was complete and as I made a mental note to get the doctor to check for a hernia next time I was there, I re-wrapped my hand and prepared for battle.
Swiftly I closed to within a metre of the beast, went through my usual warm-up, loosened my fingers and shoulders, moved my neck from side to side, took a deep breath . . . and pounced.
It was over in a flash.
The sudden movement woke the dog who became instantly manic and raced after me as I bolted for the safety of the loo.
He jumped up and knocked my hand as I threw the paper into the bowl, slightly opening the crushed paper.
Now I've watched those telly programmes. I knew I'd have to check the body. So I peered in. Groan. No cockroach.
Unfortunately, he wasn't back on the ceiling in the bedroom either. Or in the bed. I know because Mrs P made me strip it completely and check before remaking it and hauling the whole thing back into place.
I'm going to have to go back and recheck everything again I'm sure. I just thought I'd write this column first.
And I'll probably have to get Mrs P to have a look at this itchy thing that seems to have arisen under the neck of my shirt before I restart the search.
• 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.