Kevin Page.
Around this time every year the fair maidens of Aotearoa embark on a curious ritual centred around the upcoming festive season.
In my humble abode I like to call it Hinting Season.
In the past, with three women living in the house and associated girlfriends appearing bleary-eyed from rooms down the hall some mornings, the kitchen cackle of the ladies is an experience not to be missed.
I'm thinking of opening the occasion up to tour groups for $19.99 a head. Breakfast included.
Anyway.
During this discussion each morning the girls set about letting everybody know what they want for Christmas by laying carefully crafted hints into the conversation.
Boomerang Child (she always comes home), for instance, has the travel bug. Interspersed with gobfuls of cornflakes she manages to slip in her request to Santa for a certain branded bag which will "make her travels so much easier".
The latter comment is said in a distinctly clear and firm tone. Pitched higher than the vocabulary around it to stand out.
Anyone in close proximity with a perceived bulging wallet (let's call him dad) is left in no uncertain terms what she wants ... even though he's thinking there's a plastic bag in the third drawer down which will do the trick just as well.
Gym Junkie (eldest daughter; into healthy body/healthy mind) adds support.
"Oh my God!" (They do actually say that.) "That would look so cool. I could carry NEW GYM SHOES in one of those. At the moment all I can think of to use is that plastic bag in the third drawer down".
Groan. I get the message. I always do.
This year though it's just me and Mrs P. The kids have flown the coop (though Boomerang Child is threatening to return soon) so we'll be doing some things a little different. But Hinting Season continues.
Just the other day while checking her obviously exquisite look in the mirror before departing for work the words NEW BRA rose distinctly above the others amid the sentences of Mrs P.
Hmmm. This is dangerous territory for us husbands. Those of you who have trekked such a difficult path will know what I mean. Let me try to explain.
In purchasing lingerie (work on saying "lon-jer-ray" and the girl at Farmers will think you know what you are talking about) it is critical to get it just right.
Now guys, you and I know that in our hormone-raging formative years purchasing such items would be a breeze and basically consist of colours, fabrics and designs that are straight out of a questionable magazine or video (remember those) and pleasing to the eye. Our eye that is. Seldom theirs.
Unfortunately for the subject of our affection the said items can only be described as, er, let's just say it rhymes with "putty".
And your beloved, while trying to convince herself that at least it was the thought that counted, will be seething inside and working out ways to pour a laxative into your beer.
So in this Hinting Season it's time to step up and do the right thing, men.
Start with secret research. Raid the laundry basket for the items in question or sneak a peek in her top drawer when she's out. Check the size. Write it down. Do not rock up to the "lon-jer-ray" department and estimate the correct cup size with your upturned hands, if you get my drift.
Secondly, when you get home from a hard day at the coalface, casually drop a colour question into the conversation.
Something like "do you think that's a nice shade of aquamarine?" should do the trick. Of course she'll be gobsmacked and you may look like an absolute plonker if you still have your workboots on and are covered in muck from the day's exertions but remember: This is YOUR lady. She's worth the embarrassment.
So there you have it. Size and colour sorted and your selection just became so much easier.
And what's the bet come Christmas Day when she opens her pressie and finds it's not the normal last-minute flowers from the service station or a new pot for the kitchen she will be so impressed she'll shower you with love and affection.
You never know. Get it right and she really might just turn out to be putty in your hands.
- Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share your stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz
The worker logged 437 hours in five weeks - all of which was unpaid.