I mention this because the other day I discovered something about the woman I have worshipped since I looked into her amazing eyes at that social at the tennis club all those years ago that, well, surprised me to say the least.

In fact, when it did all come out, I wasn’t the only one left open-mouthed.

A scene of utter chaos ensued with women screaming, children crying, animals making, er, animal noises and hapless husbands trying to contain it all and bring some order back to the proceedings.

I should add that it was cold, raining and the hapless husband, yours truly, was soaked to the skin and on the verge of frostbite on account of the fact he left his shoes behind and was wearing jandals.

Here’s what happened.

Mrs P and I have suffered the most terrible of terrible luck in our new caravan where the fridge decided it didn’t like a bit of its intestines so spat them out.

Unfortunately, this meant a new part had to come from Australia and we would have to take it in for fitting – the whole caravan, that is, not just the fridge – and find somewhere else to live for a night.

Luckily, the Boomerang Child had a room for us at the ramshackle old farmhouse she and her tribe have been camping in for the last month or so.

Unluckily, if you look at it that way, it’s in a freezing cold spot, deep in a dark valley, and you need a four-wheel drive vehicle to get to the front door – which is practically falling off the hinges.

I think a real estate agent would describe the whole set-up as “character” but I’m sure you get what I mean.

Regardless, Mrs P and I were thankful for the bed. I was particularly thankful it was very cold. All I’ll say is any opportunity to get, ahem, a bit “closer” to my beloved – to keep warm obviously – is one to be relished.

And if you are sitting there shaking your head in disapproval over your cornflakes saying you wouldn’t take advantage of such a situation well, quite frankly, I don’t believe you.

So, we’ve got a bed. We’ve just got to get the caravan to the fixer-upperer and then head out there.

It’s been pouring with rain for half the night and on the morning we’re packing up it seems to have got heavier. I’m saturated right through to my Superman boxers by the time we drop it off and I’m frozen to the core so my mind is not thinking straight.

Consequently, I leave my shoes in the caravan and drive out to the farm with wet, frozen feet and toes wedged into the jandals I keep for emergencies.

Oh well. At least there’ll be a fire at the farmhouse.

There is. It’s hissing at me as I plant my frozen frame in front of it. Wet wood. No heat. Zero.

Groan.

All right. I’ll grab a shower then. Warm up that way. No-go there either, unfortunately.

Something has gone wrong with the water supply. A bloke is on his way.

I’m just about to be a man – by which I mean sulk – when Mrs P steps in with a great idea. Why don’t we all put our raincoats on, walk back down the track to the road and get some fresh air.

Immediately the Boomerang Child and the two littlies, who have been cooped up inside for days, express enthusiasm and I’m press-ganged into being in charge of the double pushchair.

Boomerang Child takes command of the three dogs – two she’s looking after and our three-legged George, and off we set.

I can tell you it’s hard going pushing a double pushchair up a muddy four-wheel drive track. It’s definitely not much fun doing it while you are already soaking wet, wearing jandals and it’s starting to rain again.

Even the dogs seemed a little peeved as the heavens opened and the cool breeze became an icy gale. They decided enough was enough and raced off in the direction of civilisation aka the neighbour’s house which apparently had a warm fire and hot water but don’t quote me on that.

Their misbehaviour caused Boomerang Child to go after them whereupon she slipped in the mud and came crashing down on her bum.

The only one not bothered by all this was Mrs P.

Stylishly elegant in her Kathmandu-supplied outfit, she strode the boggy track imperiously, singing nursery rhymes to keep the kids’ spirits up – and presumably to cover the cursing coming from myself and the Boomerang Child.

There we all were. In turmoil. Dogs escaping and suddenly there’s an almighty, thunderous roar.

“Get in behind.”

That was when the world stopped turning.

The dogs stopped running, the Boomerang Child forgot her bum hurt, I forgot I was wet and cold and two cows which had stood there chewing grass stared on open-mouthed.

The noise, nay, absolute command, had come from Mrs P.

My sweet, gentle, quiet-as-a-mouse love of my life had discovered hitherto untapped decibel reserves and given the dogs an order they obviously did not fancy arguing about. In fact, as I watched, they were returning to the wagon train, tails between their legs.

As for the littlies, it was a different story.

The roar from “Narny” had initially shocked them into silence as it had all of us, but now they were frightened. And, inevitably, tears began to flow.

Worst still, as the Boomerang Child moved in to comfort them she slipped – again – and went over on her bum – again. And she too started to sob.

This, in turn, made Mrs P upset she had caused such a situation.

As a result, it was a very forlorn bunch that made its way back to the house, in the freezing rain and mud, past the two cows who were now mooing enthusiastically.

I have to say if I hadn’t been so bloody cold, wet and miserable, I’d probably have had trouble stifling a laugh, such was the ridiculousness of the situation.

Later as we reviewed the day’s events, Mrs P explained she’d had an uncle who owned a farm and on a visit one time she’d heard him yell at the dogs.

“I just thought I’d give it a go,” she said innocently. “I’ve always thought it would be good fun to live on a farm.”