I need to stop answering the door in my dressing gown | Alun Newman

For example, the person in our family who collects, opens and sorts the post is my wife.

Her contract has been extended to keeping some kind of order with emails as well.

She also is the person most likely to answer the landline.

When that rings, most of us look at each other wondering what the noise is.

The kids have become masters of clearing away dishes (sooner it’s done, the sooner you can go back to a screen) and sweeping floors.

I seem to be the person most likely to answer the front door. In fact very few people even move when the doorbell goes, as they trust my ‘front of house’ capability. They also #CBA (can’t be ‘bothered’).

I’m not sure how these assumptions become established but I'm sure that all families up and down the land have their own roles. Many of which we’d all quite happily drop in a heartbeat.

This week, I was back from work and getting ready for my usual nap (cue violin music).

As I get up at 4am, I like to grab 40 winks when I get home, so I’m not the most unbearable, grouchy and oddly disconnected husband (my wife’s words), on the south coast.

My routine here is to go to sleep, as if you were going to bed at night.

Not just lying on the bed but full commitment to the nap. Properly ‘in’ bed.

On this particular day, my wife was on an important Zoom call (someone was having a job interview) and my son was in a Zoom lesson (he wasn’t gaming so this was a high priority to protect).

I jump into bed and within minutes of descendeding into REM sleep, I dream I hear the doorbell.

Dog goes berserk.

It wasn’t a dream.

I jump up and grab my wife’s dressing gown.

A bright red, fluffy number. It’s tiny. Not in a saucy way – my missus is very small. Her ideal bed, would be a match box.

I race downstairs in boxer shorts and the tiny gown and get to the door.

It’s a sign-for delivery. I sign for the package and apologise for my appearance (Rodney Trotter wearing Cassandra’s robe).

Now for the awkward moment.

The delivery guy says: ‘Don’t worry Alun. I listen to the breakfast show every morning. I know you start early! Love the show!’

I panic.

I’m no longer anonymous – just a nobody looking like an idiot.

This is the mental image I’ve implanted into the mind of someone who listens every morning. This is no Kardashian moment. No celebration of seeing the person, not just the voice.

Vocally I sound robust, rich, golden, smooth, inquiring. Visually I look like I’ve got six months left to live. Either that or someone’s keeping me hostage and withholding food and light.

I try to repair the damage with some ‘show chat’ and inside knowledge. I could see by the look on his face, the damage was done.

Only Chris Hemsworth (Thor) or Ant Middleton (SAS) could pull off boxer shorts and a tiny dressing gown.

The battle was lost.

It’s a sign of an overactive ego and character weakness that it even bothered me.

A stronger, more secure, thin, pale, skinny guy could have coped. But of course, such a person does not exist. I know my people and we’re vulnerable.

Don’t get banned from the tip…

I had to book a time slot online before I went to the tip (dump, recycling centre).

I also had to wait four days for the next available one.

I needed to get rid of a teenager's double mattress. I folded it and threaded the offending item into my car.

As I was driving there, I wondered what was more deadly – Covid-19 or sitting in a car with a folded double mattress that has played host to numerous teenage occupants?

It was obvious. The mattress was the clear winner.

One benefit of having to book a half hour slot is you don’t want to waste it. I prowled the house and garage for anything that needed to go. The system demands that you think about your visit.

Who knows when the next slot will become available?

The other demand is that you don’t forget your appointment.

Our waste centre warns that if you forget or miss your slot you may well not be offered another!

That is a threat to take very seriously. Imagine being black-listed from the dump!

How would you let your wider family know?

You’d be a laughing stock. For reference, half an hour is far too long. I had enough time to sweep out my car and refit the seats and parcel shelf.

Who’s ever managed that on a visit before?