What we will, inevitably, refer to in the future as Boxgate started as I arrived home this evening.
"Oh," said Katie innocently, "I took a delivery at work today for something I'd ordered. It's in the boot of my car, could you nip out and bring it in for me?"
"OK," I replied, skipping lightly out to the driveway. But as I approached the car, I wondered to myself. What has she ordered this time? Why does she need me to come and get it. Should I be worried?
I approached the car, remote control alarm plipper thingy in hand. What was I expecting to see there? Something scary? A Great White Shark?
Don't be silly. How could you fit a fully grown Great White in the back of a Mini? Oh, of course. Put the back seats down.
Plip. Open the hatch. Oh my God.
It's OK, I thought, it's just a box. But quite a big one. In fact, it's fair to say, bloody huge. Essentially, it would seem, my darling wife had simply driven home on a large cardboard box, with the functional bits of a car wrapped tightly around it.
I tried lifting the box. After a few seconds, lights started to appear before my eyes and my breathing was getting laboured. I went back into the house.
"How did you get that into your car? Did you, perchance, get them to leave it in the car park at work, then reverse towards it at high speed with your boot open?"
A small voice. "I might have used a trolley."
Eventually, after having mined a whole new seam of swearing, I got the box into the house. "What, exactly, is it?" I gasped.
"It's a food mixer."
"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. I must have been asleep at that meeting where we agreed we were going into the catering industry."
"Don't be a pillock. This is a Kenwood. I've wanted one of these for ages."
"That's lucky, because I wanted a double hernia, and lo and behold..."
You'd be amazed how sharp a dough-hook can be to the back of the head.