My mind drifts back to the late summer of 2014, when an area adjacent to the cistern in the little room designated specifically for my use - I’ve still to sample the self-closing toilet seat in the newly renovated big bathroom - was found to be a little grubby.
This caused Mrs P some genuine concern, especially as that particular area was on my half of the list for our weekly clean, and I had assured her I had done the job to an acceptable standard each week.
Unfortunately, my standards - which did not just amount to a quick wipe-over, I should point out - did not equate to the standard demanded by Mrs P, and I was subsequently banished to the doghouse as she went to work with a big bucket of soapy water and a sponge while muttering, “Bloody men...”, or words to that effect.
Anyway.
There we are, and my previous poor record in the cleaning stakes has seen me assigned to wardrobe clean-out this year. More particularly, my wardrobe.
Now, this is actually good news, as it provides me with an opportunity to distract Mrs P and go do something else.
Let me explain.
I dislike the annual spring clean hugely, mainly for the reasons previously mentioned. I’m happy to pitch in and do my bit, but problems arise when the clock ticks past a couple or three hours and I seem to be cleaning areas that look perfectly fine to me.
I guess it’s the difference between men and women.
But I digress.
So, there I am, and I’m assigned to a clean-out of my wardrobe, and I’ve already had enough. There’s only one thing for it. The distraction ploy.
“I wonder if those shorts still fit?” I casually mention aloud while Mrs P appears to be scrubbing something to within an inch of its life in the room next door.
I can practically hear her heart skip a few beats with excitement as she drops what she’s doing and breathlessly races around to meet me standing by the open wardrobe door.
“You should try them on,” she says, the tremor in her voice barely able to conceal her excitement.
At this point, a fisherman might be tempted to shout ‘Gotcha!’, because getting me to try on clothes is guaranteed to be the only thing to trump the annual spring clean in our household.
At this point, with the fish well and truly on the line and the spring clean a distant memory, I’m basically toying with Mrs P.
“I suppose I could get a new pair of shorts, couldn’t I?” I tease. “We’ve got that thing coming up soon, so it might be a good idea...”
To be honest, I’m not sure she heard that last bit. I merely mention possibly buying a new pair, and she’s thrown herself at the stack on the top shelf and is busily wrestling them down to bed level where we can inspect them.
Before I can change my mind, they are all laid out on the bed, and a pair of dark blue checked shorts I think I last wore when our new Prime Minister was at kindy are being thrust at me.
“Try these on,” she barks.
Come to think of it, I think these are the ones I’ve always kept. I’m sure you know the ones I mean. The ones you are going to get into one day when you lose a bit of weight. Sound familiar?
Anyway, it goes on like that for ages. Until we come to a pair of faded blue denim shorts, previously a favourite of mine for their perfect fit and comfort. Unfortunately, they suffered a rip in the lower thigh area and ended up at the lower level of the pile at the back of the wardrobe.
Until now.
Naturally, Mrs P wants me to try them on.
As soon as I do so, I am transported back to those carefree summer days of get-togethers and outdoor fun before a loose screw on the arm of a seat ripped my shorts - and dreams - apart.
Shame. Because they still fitted quite well. Very well, in fact.
“You could still wear them,” says Mrs P. “In fact, that ripped style is all the rage now.”
I’m a little shocked, I have to admit. I mean, I’ve seen the ripped style she is referring to. Basically, it’s a pair of jeans with multiple rips in them. Sometimes you have more rip than jean, more holes full of air than fabric, if that makes sense.
Naturally, I’m thinking wearing such a garment is the domain of the young and trendy, most definitely not that of the ageing and arthritic, however cool and ‘with it’ he may want to appear.
Besides, I said, the rip in my shorts is mid-thigh. I wouldn’t want, er, “anything” of such length falling out of position and poking its way through, would I?
This provoked a snort from My Beloved, who said I had absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard and, if I felt it was even a distinct possibility, I should, and I quote, “Go and have my eyes tested”.
Faced with such a derisive attitude, I felt the best course of action was to remove myself from the immediate vicinity before I said something I’d regret - plus I was feeling a little inadequate - so I stomped off down the driveway to get the mail.
There were two items sticking out of the slot when I got there, so I grabbed them quickly and returned to the kitchen, intent on taking Mrs P to task.
I didn’t get the chance. As I put the two pieces of mail on the counter, she opened the first one and burst into laughter.
God’s honest truth - it was a letter from Specsavers saying I was due for an eye test.
