Whatever it is, it's obviously hideous enough that the garment must be purchased to avoid a fate worse than death.
Recently I had a classic example of my two girls closing ranks when the spectre of a "mess" on the carpet arose.
Now, in our house the responsibility for the cleaning of the said floor covering has passed to me.
This is because, I think, Mrs P figured out of all the household chores it was the one where I could do least damage and the easiest for her to step in and fix up later when I was out.
Regardless, I have embraced the vacuum challenge.
Discussion with my carpet-laying mate Brendon (we did talk about football too, honest) has left me with an understanding of the importance of a correctly installed carpet which is subjected to a regular vacuum regime.
So, in our house I'm the boss. Of the vacuum cleaner. And I have a routine, picking off each room at a time ... with a leisurely break in between to think about manly stuff like football so I don't get brainwashed.
I've become quite protective of my carpet. I require all occupants of the dwelling to take care and immediately advise the management of any accidents. Normally they do.
Recently however, I was prevented from hauling the machinery into Boomerang Child's bedroom and queries as to why resulted in an angry mob well, Mrs P and Boomerang Child, gathering to bar my way.
Mrs P was anxious to do it herself. Boomerang Child thought she should too.
I knew something was up. No, I said, I'd do it.
No, they said together. They would sort it.
Traditionally at this stage various bribes are offered. Coffee. Muffin. A rest in front of the telly. I could have them all. I just couldn't go into the bedroom.
I thought about this for a minute. My birthday is a while off so I wouldn't be discovering any hidden gifts. The boyfriend couldn't get through the little window so I knew he wasn't being hidden in there and I'd survived the teenage years so I knew bras and undies chucked on the floor wouldn't phase me.
"What have you done," I asked Mrs P, vacuum cleaner threateningly at the ready like John Wayne with his rifle in some western stand-off with the bad guys.
Then it all came out.
A bunch of lavender had been brought into the room to provide it with a nice fragrance. Somehow this plant had dried out and subsequently spread itself over the floor.
OK, I thought. Not a biggie. But I couldn't let them know that. Man Law required me to milk this for all it was worth.
I feigned shock and horror, and slowly shook my head in mock disgust as my girls tried to blame a) the wind and b) the dog.
Then they tried to change the subject, playing on a man's interest in all things lingerie (c'mon guys I'm only human).
"Mum, you've got VPL (visible panty line)," said Boomerang Child, obviously thinking I would suddenly become a lecherous swine more interested in checking out the derriere of my beloved than the mess on the bedroom floor.
I didn't (though it was a close thing). I just slunk away, their grovelling apologies fading as I headed for the door. Shoulders slumped. Beaten. Dejected. Emasculated.
Then I got outside.
And a big smile came across my face.
Now might be the perfect time to tell Mrs P I had spilled paint on her hydrangeas.
Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.
