Then I'd gone to the dump. And queued while waiting for a space at the tip face.
When I got home I found there was a queue for the bathroom.
Boomerang Child was heading away for the weekend and apparently this requires a complete overhaul of all things to do with appearance and involves significant time in the bathroom.
The flip side, however, was that Mrs P and I, thus free of the company of Boomerang Child, elected to do something nice together. Go out. Spend some quality time.
Maybe a romantic stroll to a lookout in the forest overlooking the sewerage treatment plant, that sort of thing. (Never let it be said I'm not original) So what did we do? We went and got the groceries.
OK, I thought, maybe we can get in and out of here in good time and then we could go and do something more exciting.
The prospects were good. Mrs P had agreed this was not going to be the dreaded "big shop".
She and Boomerang Child (and 15 sherpas, two elephants and a pack mule) would come back another time and do that one.
I'm sure you know the one I mean. It's that one where the axle on the trolley strains to hold the weight of the bargain buys and you know as you struggle around with it you are going to have to do a lot of overtime to pay for it.
Anyway.
In we go and we're in luck. There's nobody at the checkout.
Better still, Mrs P has decided she doesn't want to spend her quality time stuck with me at the supermarket either.
She's in a decisive mood as items are plucked from the shelf and literally tossed into the trolley.
I'm impressed. She's a woman on a mission. I have to admit part of me was wondering if this unusual haste meant she had "plans" for me while we were alone in the forest. I snatched an extra deodorant off the shelf and slipped it into the trolley, just in case.
Aisle after aisle is ticked off as we close in on the finish line. There are now maybe three people at the checkouts.
We round the last corner. Loo roll. We always have a row here. I don't really care how soft and caressing the ply is on my backside but my girls have more dainty (and expensive) requirements.
I avoid the argument and accept the higher price as three more people arrive at the checkout. We're in the home stretch now, ambling past the checkouts looking for the one with the least traffic so we can slide through and head off on our special day.
But wait. Where's Mrs P going?
"Here's one," I say, bringing the trolley to a halt but my beloved just keeps walking, and walking ... straight into the wine section.
Groan. So near and yet so far.
We nearly made it but by the time she emerges with a bottle of red recommended by a friend (who is, incidentally, about to be struck off my Christmas card list) normal service has resumed and the checkout area is full.
We are stuck at the back of what we really hope is the fastest express queue in history but which seems to be similar in number to the population of a small European country.
That's where we stay until darkness descends on the day and our mood.
Fast forward to Monday and I've put the queue debacle behind me as I go to the bank.
Miraculously it's empty. Not a person nor a queue in sight.
I can't restrain my glee and, to the amusement of the tellers, do a twirl, arms outstretched like Julie Andrews high on the hilltop in the opening scene of The Sound of Music. Note: If anyone can think of a more masculine explanation I'm all ears.
And that was it really. My queue frustrations were put aside. Just like that.
Well, sort of.
I landed awkwardly while twirling and twisted my knee.
Now I'm queuing up to see the doctor.
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.
