This should have been my last post, a post that ended up being about how I consider myself a confident dad.
But I actually intended on writing about my failings, or more accurately, things I am unable to easily, and efficiently complete without the aid of another person.
My late wife was my tag team partner for such tasks, and there were certain things that were totally her domain, such as packing and the whole present buying-wrapping-delivering-on-time process.
I found, and increasingly find, those two little things really difficult and annoying. The annoyance almost certainly down to the frustration borne by my ineptness. And perhaps, in part, due to the fact that I physically feel her absence a little more at such times.
They are things I can do, they just seem to take monstrous effort, like, for instance, my packing for our Hadrian's Wall walk, whilst not started, has been at the planning stage since last summer.
I actually jotted down an outline packing plan, on the back of my excellent summer holiday spreadsheet, that was unwittingly being dictated by Sir Dan Hughes (who incidentally has taken delivery of our Buffs and t-shirts, that are now available for purchase).
And I shall probably still take too much or too little, cursing myself for the majority of the walk for my glaring omissions or excess baggage.
Samantha would have taken care of all that shit, barking the odd instruction, but it was very much accepted that she was infinitely more able than me with such things, and I simply would not worry about them.
She was also the keen shopper, fashion in particular. The extent of my clothes buying had only just evolved passed circling stuff in my mom's Littlewoods catalogue when we got together. And although I actually had some clothes of minor fashionable value, this was completely down to luck, and the fact that I stick with things so long, they have to be in vogue at some point.
It never really got to the point of my wife buying my clothes for me, but she would take me shopping to get stuff, and offer advice, encouraging me to try things on, I would normally walk right past.
My sister has now been forcedly appointed my personal shopper.
She was again my unpaid assistant recently, when I discovered that losing three stones, or about 20% of your body weight, means your clothes don't fit so good.
Our couple of days out shopping, were actually great fun for me, but of immense frustration and annoyance for my sibling, as she discovered just how useless and aloof I can be when buying clothes.
I actually walked off mid-sentence from several shop assistants, that virtually, to a person, consistently give me a look that says; 'we are concerned for your mental health'.
So, when I was in Topman last week, intending to buy another pair of jeans, quickly exhausting the good nature of the shop assistant, well 'do you need any help?' is a very leading question, I needed to put in a call to my sister to check I was not buying something I already had.
Her response, in very serious tone to my jeans related inquiry was; “You've gone shopping, ON YOUR OWN?”
Which indeed I had.
But as I suspected the call was worth making, as I was about to re-buy a pair of indigo blue jeans, that not a few days before I had been directed to by my assistant.
So, guided by cellular communication I ended up buying a pair of grey jeans, as there was 'a gap in my wardrobe' for some.
I purchased without trying them on, basically as I couldn't be arsed, and no one was there to nag me into a curtain shrouded cupboard.
Yet, when I did get into them a few days later, I discovered something of wonderment.
Everything should be 1% elastane.
The world would be a better place.