In the movies inner peace is generally found in exotic, far off places like high in the mountains of Tibet.
There, with the world laid out in all its glory far below, our hero takes stock of his or her life and all the trials and tribulations that come with it.
After a period of quiet reflection, accompanied by background music designed to tell those of us in the cheap seats they are mulling stuff over and working out a plan, they descend from the mountain top and re-enter life.
I'm going through something similar myself at the moment with a spell of joblessness.
I would have taken myself off and gone up a mountain in Tibet to think things through but I've been too busy. Mrs P has had me painting the house.
It's not quite the same I know, but I've been doing my thinking from a lofty spot too - up a high ladder.
And while the world isn't exactly laid out in all its glory far below I can see the new deck I finished a month or so ago.
The painting has actually been quite therapeutic. As I've been working my way round the house I've been able to lose myself if that makes sense and I've come up with a few ideas on how to get back into paid employment.
But I have to admit it hasn't all been serious thought.
Take the other day for instance.
Hair today gone tomorrow, budget trims ahead
I was right up the top of the ladder tackling that fiddly bit under the eaves when I felt something drop into my shirt and crawl down.
It's important at this stage that you grasp my predicament.
I'm up a high ladder holding a paint brush in one hand and a paint pot in the other. I'm basically using my balance to stay on the top rung and something is crawling down my back.
I figured there were two ways this could go.
I could drop everything and basically thrash about to try and rid myself of the invader or I could stay cool, calm and collected and carefully descend to the bottom where I would remove my shirt and happily shake out the little critter.
I went with the second option - as you do before hysteria takes over. I'm sure you know what I mean. And things were going well until two rungs down when the "thing" started running across my back.
This time there was no cool, calm and collected reaction.
The paint pot and brush were tossed aside, bouncing on the new deck below and leaving a splodge with a similar outline to a map of Russia. And not too dissimilar in size either I might add.
Meanwhile I was hurtling down the ladder yelling, twisting and writhing as the whatever it was inside my shirt felt like it was sprinting further south heading for the top of my shorts and that well known geographical location known as Builders Crack.
I got to the bottom of the ladder just as Mrs P arrived at the ranch slider.
The sight that greeted her must have been alarming to say the least.
Firstly her husband was dancing round while stripping off at a great rate of knots, yelling something about a creepy crawly that had gotten into his shirt and shorts and secondly her new lockdown deck, of which she had proudly sent pictures to the kids only a week or so ago, was now covered with more paint than was on the house.
Eventually the hysteria subsided and heartbeats returned to normal and I was able to explain... while standing there amid the paint-ruined deck in my work boots and boxers.
It would be fair to say there was a tense edge to the sympathy on offer from Mrs P, particularly when an investigation of the discarded shirt and shorts found no evidence of a creepy crawly at all.
Luckily - a term I use very loosely in this instance - said beastie made its presence known a short while later when a painful sensation began around my ankle.
Quick investigation of my sock found a wasp, presumably well travelled, who had had enough of all the yelling, screaming and dancing about and had made his displeasure known in his own not-so-subtle way.
Mrs P was just as direct when she suggested this was a sign I needed to stop messing about, get dressed and get on with fixing up the deck before the spilled paint dried.
But there was a smile as she suggested maybe it was a sign from above and I'd really just been stung into action.
• 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