If I were a kept man I wouldn't be totally chauvinistic. I mean I wouldn't expect my beloved to work all day in her main job and then go out and do the night shift at the mill.
In fact, I think if she could find a job she really enjoyed, was good at it and brought home enough dough to keep me, er, I mean us, in new golf balls each week then life would be just dandy.
Actually I think she might have found just the job. Car saleswoman.
Let me explain.
I have just returned from a five-day cultural tour of Palmerston North where I studied the trajectory pattern of a little white ball and the bottom of a glass. While I was away Mrs P sold our car.
And she did a fine job.
It goes without saying that in our family the job of selling the cars is usually that of the alpha male. Me. It's a tough job involving delicate negotiations with total strangers interspersed with a steely resolve and a good deal of patter.
But when the head of the household is called to Palmy along with 15 like-minded individuals to further their vital research into golf and beverage consumption, the family lioness has to step in.
"Sulphur motors" on Te Ngae Rd was the scene of Mrs P's triumph as she confidently negotiated the steady stream of buyers wanting the deal of the century for our family four wheeler.
By all accounts (actually her own account) there were a few blokes trying to put one over on the "little woman" but she held firm, insisted her price was fair and presumably threatened to call their mothers if they screwed up their noses and were rude. Likewise, mechanical issues were dealt to with similar aplomb.
"Cambelt? Wouldn't have a clue. Take it to your mechanic. He'll tell you if it has been changed."
And what about the guy who kept coming back. Obviously interested in the car.
Or was he?
Mrs P said he was such a nice man and was very chatty. He obviously put my beloved at ease because she was chatty back.
On his second walk by they shared family stories. After that they had a laugh about their first cars as teenagers.
Somewhere around the time of his fifth walk past Mrs P sold the car to someone else and wandered home content.
Upon arriving home she discovered a message on the answerphone from her nice, chatty man who (surprise,surprise) seemed to have forgotten about the car altogether.
Luckily the message coincided with the arrival home of the alpha male - you'll recall that's me - and it was promptly and efficiently consigned to cyberspace.
And that's just where any notion I have of becoming a kept man is going.
Especially when Mrs P goes to sell our car and gets someone else's motor running.
Kevin Page has been a journalist for 35 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.
