A few months ago I was sitting with my good friend The Scottish Plumber discussing how we would save the planet and football over a convivial beverage when something far more important cropped up - bathroom renovations.
Mrs P and I decided some time ago it was time for us to upgrade that place in our humble abode where the magic happens and we become trim, taut and terrific, basically Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie lookalikes.
Obviously, there was only one man for the job – of shifting the loo and moving the bath, that is. I have no idea if he'd be any good with a Brad Pitt makeover kit.
It was a no-brainer really. The Scottish Plumber has done all our bathroom work for the past 35 years. In fact, he's still moaning about the price he charged me way back when I didn't have a hole in my haircut and "bubbles" were something that went up your nose if you drink your beer too quickly.
I mentioned our renovation plans and he took a big, long swig of his Heineken and said simply: "don't get involved. Leave it to your wife".
Naturally, I was somewhat taken aback. Surely I would be the go-to person when it came to things like valve pressures and the appropriate water-resistant sealants wouldn't I? And that's before we've even got to things like shower heads and basin mixers.
Picture if you will another long draw on his beer as he pondered my query. The answer to that question was equally forthright: "nope".
He reminded me of a house we had owned some years ago where the mandatory bathroom renovation had gotten under way with he and I sharing the driving, so to speak.
I thought everything had been going well and indeed we were well on target to be finished for Mrs P's return from a week away, when I was required to make an on-the-spot decision about a cupboard.
Naturally, I knew exactly what my beloved wanted and, being a bloke, I went for practicality and thriftiness over unnecessarily costly style. The cupboard installed, we ended up with something I thought fitted in perfectly well.
Unfortunately, said cupboard was the first thing Mrs P saw when she opened the door. I think the shriek that emanated from deep within her vocal chords would have been heard around the country - if not across the ditch.
It turned out the cupboard was wrong in many respects.
Not only was it the wrong size, it transpired it was the wrong width, the wrong colour, didn't have a shelf, the door opened on the wrong side, the handle did not match any of the others in the bathroom and the entire thing was a hard-to-clean matt finish when my beloved had been making everything else easy-to-clean gloss.
The Scottish Plumber grinned as he recalled the lecture I received on the spot from one very unimpressed wife.
The grin became a chuckle as he regurgitated the tale of my discomfort. "I remember you trying to make excuses," he laughed.
He was right. I did try to make excuses.
I'm not actually sure why because when it all boiled down to it I simply had been away with the fairies when Mrs P had given me my instructions for such an eventuality as I dropped her off at the airport.
To this day I remain somewhat perplexed as to how I could have got it so wrong, but it came as no surprise to my drinking buddy who assured me it was quite common.
"Husbands just don't listen," he said with the calm authority of someone who had seen it many times before.
Now it was my turn to take a swig from the bottle and ponder the way forward.
We would be spending a sizeable amount - the equivalent at least of the gross domestic product of a small Pacific island nation from what I could workout. I say that because I've not really been involved with the purchase of what's going in to the updated bathroom.
Mrs P has found several new friends in the royal and ancient Sisterhood of Plumbing Showroom Assistants and I'm not allowed at their meetings. I think they must have secret rituals and handshakes or something. Either way they all appear to be on the same wavelength as my wife.
Whenever I ask what we are having in the bathroom, she says "It's all under control. The girls know what I want."
Oh well. Enough said. Ka ching!
At this point The Scottish Plumber must have realised I was a beaten man.
"Just leave it to me and your good lady," he said, patting my arm. "We'll sort it all out and unlike last time you will both be happy at the end of it."
Resigned to my fate, I took another slurp of my beverage. Oh well, at least I had The Scottish Plumber in my corner looking after my interests during the process.
And I suppose he knows what he's doing so let's hope there won't be any extra costs.
Mind you, having said that, he's still moaning about how little he got paid for that job 30 odd years ago so I wouldn't be surprised if he sends me an invoice for relationship counselling this time as well.
• 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 (Kevin Page in subject field).