So let's just say he's a Scottish plumber named "Jimmy" (aren't they all) and leave it at that.
Anyway, Jimmy was called to our humble abode this week to assist with a shower issue. That's how he managed to become part of our chocolate almond debacle.
You see, boxes of the chocolate delicacies in question had been purchased for No1 Son and I at Christmas.
While Mrs P was not on patrol I had devoured mine on carefully planned excursions to the fridge, pretending to get her some soda water or the like but really sneaking a chocolate beauty or two each time.
An empty box lay there for the three days after I'd scoffed the last one. I spent the time praying my beloved didn't check how many were left so she would believe my consumption had been suitably spread out. It worked.
Unlike my gobble and go attack No1 Son planned his more carefully. So careful in fact that when he headed back to Wellington he left half a packet behind in the fridge.
I chanced upon the packet after he'd gone and suggested to Mrs P I could happily ensure they found a good home in my belly.
Unfortunately she felt otherwise and reasoned they were not my gift and should therefore stay untouched in the fridge until the prodigal son returned the following week.
Now, to a chocolate almond lover like myself that is akin to torture. I lay in bed at 3am thinking about sneaking out to the kitchen but such was Mrs P's firmness in explaining their intended destination I wasn't sure I should. Besides, I wasn't entirely convinced she hadn't built a moat round the fridge and filled it with crocodiles.
Anyway, she went off to work the next day leaving me clear the chocolate almonds were not to be touched.
And then Jimmy arrived.
The normal pleasantries were observed as we have done for the past 28-odd years.
Simply explained it goes something like this. We talk about football and golf, and I offer to make Jimmy a cup of coffee. He tells me I make the worst coffee in the world ("shaite" apparently, whatever that means in Scottish) and he'll make it himself. And so he invades the kitchen like Braveheart and makes his own. He's been doing it for years. He knows where everything is. I do the same at his place.
So, all good. Suitably caffeinated, Jimmy fixes the shower. Goes off to hunt haggis or something, and later Mrs P comes home . . . to find a number of chocolate almonds missing.
She is, shall we say, a little miffed No1 son's Chrissie gift has been poached. She gets over it after a while but I can tell she's not impressed when I suggest a Scottish plumber had entered the premises, gone into the fridge and grabbed a handful.
Think Tui ad. Not exactly the most impressive of excuses is it?
Luckily, Jimmy's coming back next week to do another bit of work for us. And this time I'll make sure there are no chocolate almonds in the fridge and I'll make the coffee, even if it is shaite.
That way I'll make sure the only hot water he has anything to do with is in the bathroom.
