Or in plain English, I need a coffee. Urgently.
It upsets my routine and spoils my day if I have to go looking for a teaspoon. Using a dessert spoon and trying to guesstimate how much you will need to load on to it to start your day right just doesn't work. I know. I've tried it.
I mentioned this fact the other day to Mrs P as I offered to make her a cuppa and opened the top drawer. Everything else was in its place but not a teaspoon was to be found.
Naturally I went on auto pilot and reached for a dessert spoon but the horrified screech from the nearby armchair jolted me back to reality.
Apparently, I needed to have a good look, Not, as she pointed out, a Man Look.
Now those of you similar in vintage to my good self will know what I'm talking about here. A Man Look goes hand in hand with an affliction known as Domestic Blindness.
Put simply we blokes just don't see things. The teaspoon could have been sitting right in front of me, stuck to my nose with superglue if you like. I simply would not see it. I'm sure you get the picture.
Now, in defence of those with domestic blindness I should point out sometimes the Mrs P's of this world do not help.
In my house She Who Must Be Obeyed has a habit of using every kitchen utensil ever invented, even for the simplest of tasks.
The upshot is a sink and workbench crammed to overflowing once that task is at an end and a husband standing bewildered in front of it wondering how such a bomb site could come from so simple a meal as something like eggs on toast.
Sound familiar?
Anyway. Back to the perplexing case of the vanishing teaspoons.
Now some years ago when each of our brood were in their teens the mystery would have been easy to solve/put the blame on.
As I'm sure you have experienced yourself, teenagers race through life never putting anything away or, in terms of dishes etc, washing anything up for reuse. They just simply grab another bowl or spoon and start over.
So very soon you have nothing left. Except of course a mountain of dishes and cutlery that has to be cleaned or loaded into the dishwasher.
That's usually when your average teenager decides on a career as a magician . . . and vanishes. Boom. Boom.
But neither Mrs P or I are teenagers any more. And apart from the odd visit from one of the kids, 99 per cent of the time it's just her and me at home.
So it's obvious then isn't it? She's to blame.
And that's the opinion I offered up as we debated whether we needed to go to Briscoes and buy another thousand teaspoons.
Big mistake.
I think the term for what Mrs P did next is "bristled with indignation". She also suggested, in quite colourful language it has to be said, I was more likely to be the cause of the teaspoon crisis because she'd seen me wandering around with them.
I won't bore you with the exact details but it seems I have a habit of stirring my coffee while I'm walking and – this is the important bit – just putting down the spoon wherever I was when I stopped.
Naturally I disagreed with this claim so Mrs P took me out to my garage and suggested we have a look. And not just a Man Look, she said.
It has to be said I was confident she was chasing a wild goose as we stepped through the garage door but it didn't take her long to find a bright shiny teaspoon to prove her point.
If the truth be known she found three. All on my workbench under the box I'd moved when I walked out to the garage with my coffee the other day. As I do, er, rather frequently. Okay, as I do most days.
She found another spoon near the vice at the far end of the bench and two more hiding in with the screwdrivers I've been meaning to put away for the past few months.
Somewhat embarrassed by the results of the search, I waited for my beloved to give me a blast.
Thankfully, she didn't but the I Told You So look and the silence that went with it was worse.
Naturally while she went back inside I volunteered to collect up all the teaspoons, then clean and return them to the cutlery drawer.
As I did so I reflected on the situation and pondered whether I had now joined the thousands of others in this country who have contracted Domestic Blindness.
The lost teaspoon saga means I consider it a very real possibility.
Or is it perhaps more that I've got used to having a cursory Man Look for such a long time now I am, in fact, losing my marbles too.
• 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 news@whanganuichronicle.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field).
