It would be fair to say I have found myself embarrassed a few times in my life. But seldom has the level of embarrassment reached that relating to an incident which occurred at the weekend just gone.
It all started earlier this year when Mrs P and I enjoyed a fabulous summer evening on the expansive deck at the home of my boss and her husband.
Liquid refreshment and conversation flowed liberally and the next day Mrs P decided we also needed a deck for entertaining.
Naturally my heart nearly stopped when she suggested we "get a builder in".
Indignant at this affront to my manhood, I curtly responded. I would do it myself and save thousands in the process.
Fast forward nine months and the deck project is, er, meandering along.
Unfortunately Mrs P wants the meandering sped up.
The family is due for Christmas so the situation has therefore required a significant push and this past weekend I found myself with little room to avoid cramp or swing a hammer, stuck in a dark, smelly space under the partially-completed deck with a box full of nails and a water bottle.
To make matters worse I had allowed for only one point of entry or exit. Obviously, because I spend my time working at a desk, I did not consider the practicalities of the matter and now every time I need something outside my prison I have to crawl through the dirt to get back outside.
It's a bit like that bit in The Shawshank Redemption where the guy crawls through a sewer pipe to reach freedom. You get the picture.
Best of 2019: Kevin Page: 2400 seconds of embarrassment
A long afternoon of this necessity had left me sweating and rehydrating in equal amounts to the point where I now needed a wee. I tried to push through and get the job done so I didn't have to go back but it was no good. Uncle Bladder was having none of it.
Eventually I managed to crawl out and hurried round to the side door near the Porcelain Palace.
It was there that the situation took a turn for the worse.
"Don't even think about coming inside in all that muck," said the prison guard, oops I mean Mrs P, barring my entry.
There ensued a tense standoff as I explained I couldn't strip off because all my clothes were drenched in sweat and mud and, as anybody knows, you just can't pull a tee shirt over your head when its wet and your arms are so tired they don't work. Besides i didn't want to have to put it all on again when I went back under the deck.
"Find a bush or something," said Mrs P with a smirk as I started hopping from leg to leg in front of her.
Well, that's all well and good you might think. But our place is relatively small and close to the neighbours. Plus we have low fences so the chances of finding such a bush for such a practice without being seen were practically nil.
By this stage I'm dancing about like the lead in Riverdance as Mrs P's smirk turns into a full-on grin.
"I know," she said disappearing inside. "Go and sit behind the barbecue table in the corner."
Figuring that might ease the uncomfortableness I did as I was told and squeezed into the afore-mentioned spot, probably the most private on the property. Round the back of the house, in the corner formed by two high fences and under the overhanging branches of a neighbour's tall tree.
A minute later Mrs P re-emerged with a bottle and handed it over.
Now I should point out this was not just any bottle. This was a purpose-built hospital appliance for this very purpose. Not to bore you with the details but a recent medical procedure involving that end of the anatomy meant we had one at home.
And I have to say it did the job splendidly.
Such was the relief I closed my eyes, calmed my breathing and enjoyed the absolute feeling of euphoria.
I believe the phrase is "lost in the moment".
And there I stayed until an uncomfortable sounding cough from above jolted me back to reality in the form of my neighbour, high up in his overlooking tree with a pruning saw in one hand and a gobsmacked look on his face.
• 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