The lady at the shop where I buy my milk and bread is usually pretty friendly.

But yesterday she called me a sexist pig.

Then she threw my bread at me.

My wife has told me in no uncertain terms that if I wasn’t so damned cute, she wouldn’t be talking to me.

Apparently I’ve gone too far this time.

In my bid to bring a little humour to your lives, it appears I have upset some of you.

Apparently, my attempts last week to prove I am not a male chauvinist pig may have had the opposite effect.

Referrals to letting women “out of the kitchen” were out of order ... apparently.

Oh come on people – it was humour!!

If you want to take things that seriously then you’re reading the wrong column.

No, no, come back!

I was only joking.

I promise I’ll try to be better behaved.

I apologise, all right?

Would it help if I was paraded up Mooloolaba Esplanade slapping myself with a dead fish?

Last time I did that it was a lifestyle choice but if it would make you feel better I could pretend I wasn’t enjoying it this time.

In between constant bouts of reminding me how lucky I am that she is a tolerant woman, my wife suggested I could show some remorse by exposing myself to my readers a bit more.

I smiled.

She slapped me.

“Expose something about yourself,” she snapped.

“Show them some aspect of you that they’ve never see before.”

I smiled again.

She slapped me again.

“What about your glazed window phobia?” she suggested.

“That will show them you’re only human.”

I told her I didn’t know if I wanted to be seen as “only human” and I reckon that calling it a phobia is probably a bit rich.

I just don’t trust glazed windows.

You can’t blame me, really.

I’ve been caught one too many times.

You know how it goes. You’re staying in a resort or a hotel somewhere and you take it for granted the windows are glazed and people can’t see into your room.

So you get a bit slack about putting clothes on when you’re wandering around until management calls to say the people out by the pool have been complaining.

Go on, admit it. It’s happened to all of us at some stage.

The incident which probably scarred us most happened at the Sawtell RSL Club on the NSW North Coast a few years back when we dropped in for a drink after a day at the beach.

I had taken some clothes to change into, so I parked the car against a large, featureless wall which fronted the club’s car park and proceeded to get changed beside the car as smoothly and quickly as possible.

Of course, these things never go to plan and I spent way too long trying to getting my shorts off and my jeans on.
In the process I got tangled up and fell over – exposing my fourth best pair of undies to the world.

My wife, of course, merely had to slip on a pair of shoes because women’s clothing is just so damned adaptable, isn’t it!

Sorry, there I go again with the male chauvinist stuff.

Anyway, I think you can see where this is heading.

After I got my wardrobe malfunctions sorted out, we strutted into the club feeling pretty good about the world only to discover the “blank” wall was actually a complete side of the building made of glazed glass.

It just happened to be a wall of the main bar which was full of elderly women enjoying a quiet drink and a game of bingo.

If they had been willing to pretend nothing happened, I could have lived with the knowledge that I had just done a strip for a bunch of women old enough to be my grandmother.

But no. They had to start clapping, didn’t they!

I turned red.

My wife hit me again.

We turned and walked out.

So there. I’ve exposed myself to you and I hope you’re horrified by the mental images.

I know where you can find 150 women who share your pain.