Remember when a good old lay-in was a must on a Saturday or Sunday?

The week's work done, the comforts of one's duvet were something to look forward to before doing it all over again on Monday morning.

I personally used to cherish the blissful state of dreaminess I encountered on a Sunday morning.

While the rest of the world got up and planned a visit to rellies or an all-out assault on a plate of eggs benny at the new place in town, I dreamt of crashing over for the World Cup winning try or firmly declining the amorous advances of Miss World (think Tui ad here).

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Sadly those days have long gone. The psychic connection between my Warehouse bladder and a certain porcelain object in a certain little room have seen to that.

Put simply, it calls, my bladder answers and that's it. Game over -- forget the lay-in. I'm up.

Mrs P, on the other hand, has no such issue.

She could lay-in for New Zealand, dreaming of Briscoes discounts and declining the amorous advances of Rod Stewart, George Clooney and a Spanish footballer she perved at once on the telly named Juan Antonio Abandoncieri.

A quick aside, guys _ tell her that's your name in a Spanish accent ("My name eez Whuan Antoni o Abandcieri, you byootiful creature!"). See where it gets you ... ahem.

Anyway ...

I'm up. She's not.

Now in the past this has caused us some issues.

Naturally, having been watered I need to be fed and thus I have (her words) "crashed and bashed" my way round the house to the extent that she has been ripped from her pervy dreams and has to get up, too.

And I can tell you a Mrs P deprived of a lay-in and a bit of sleep - plus, presumably, a steamy dream about Rod, George or a Spanish lothario - is not a lady to be trifled with.

I believe the term is "Ratty Dragon".

So early on Sunday morning, after the loo called and Boris Bladder answered, I thought I'd best try and avoid the dragon lady and keep the noise down.

Easier said than done. I'm not sure about your place, but ours is a veritable jungle of creaks, squeaks and bangs.

For a start there's the bedroom door to close behind me. It needs to be pulled hard. Naturally that comes with a bang.

Then there's the creaking floorboard which sits, like a mined border, between the kitchen entrance and the kettle i need to turn on for the neccessary caffeine infusion.

And then there's the kettle itself ...

Not enough water and it sounds like a train coming down a tunnel. I need to fill it. Trouble is our tap is one of those that occasionallhy offers up a loud thump if i turn the water on too fast.

Then there's the boiled eggs I like to have for brekky.

I need a pot. Naturally its at the bottom of the pot drawer and extracting it is like pushing over one of those suits of armour you see in the movies. Lots of noisy clanging and bashing.

And if i get that far and am lulled into a false sense of security, there's the chair i sit in that my brother-in-law the upholsterer has been threatening to fix for the last six years.

You know the one - it's got the noisiest squeak you've ever heard.

So anyway. Here I am. I'm up.

I've carefully closed the bedroom door, gingerly tiptoed around the very edge of the kitchen (stubbing my toe on the kitchen kickboard – presumably that's why they call it a "kick" board – as I go), and turning the kettle on.

At the first sound of the train in the tunnel I snatch the kettle from its cradle and head for the sink.

Like a safe-cracker testing for the right combination I carefully ease the tap on and fill it.

By this stage I am pleased with my quiet endeavours. If this column writing gig doesn't pay off I might consider a career as a cat burglar.

So next it's the pot drawer and, sure enough, the pot i need is at the bottom.

It is like a game of metallic pick-up sticks ... at any moment the whole thing could come crashing down. Floodlights will come on, sirens will go off, armed guards will come storming out of their barracks . . .

But nothing happens. I survive the extraction.

Even the eggs are playing their part, boiling away with the minimum of fuss and the tiniest of bubbling.

Five minutes (see my new boiled egg recipe book out soon) later I ease myself carefully into the deadly chair so the squeak is barely audible and gently tap on the head of the egg with the feathery touch of er ... well, whoever has a feathery touch.

And just as I'm about to take my first moutful the bedroom door opens and there stands the Dragon - er, I mean Mrs P.

She's awake. Why? Apparently she couldn't sleep. It was too quiet.

*Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales and a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Your own tales and feedback are welcome on kevin.page@nzme.co.nz