Heart FM Breakfast Show presenter Paris Tory

I ’M hiding in Wilkinsons on East Street in Bedminster, pretending to be interested in lampshades.

This is a nightmare. If I’d had the guts to own up this would never have happened. But oh no, smart alec Troy, you had to play macho man, didn’t you?

Twenty minutes earlier. At home, my girlfriend is up a ladder drilling stuff and I’m making tea and standing around awkwardly trying to look knowledgeable.

This role reversal is a familiar sight in our house because I know nothing about DIY. I look at flat pack instructions and think it’s astrophysics. It’s like explaining a card trick to a monkey. In fact, the monkey would get it faster.

She turns to me (not the monkey, my girlfriend) and says: “Can you go to Wilkos and get a cable tie?”

Now, I wouldn’t know a cable tie if it hacked my kneecaps off.

So the correct answer is: “I’ve no idea what that is, please explain it to me.”

But then I do what I’ve done countless times before: I pretend to go along with something just because I don’t want to lose face or look stupid.

In the past, I’ve gone home from the butchers with twice the amount of beef I need because I felt bad asking him to replace some.

I’ve accidentally pointed at luxury monkfish when I’ve meant cheap pollock, watched meekly as it’s wrapped and priced up, smiled and paid the nice lady in the hat, then cried all the way to robbing a bank.

“Cable tie, sure, yeah, no problem,” I say, nodding sternly and holding my chin, as this indicates wisdom.

I get to Wilkos. I approach the assistant who looks about 16. I can do this. I just need to bluff. Be confident, look manly and speak as Bristolian as possible to sound salt of the earth and tradesmanlike.

“Alrriiight therrre mayyyte, where arrre yerrr cayyble ties then?” The answer floors me: “What’s a cable tie?”

Now, I’m bang in the middle of a rock and a hard place. But again, do I sensibly admit my ignorance? Of course not.

“What,” I snort derisively in the Queen’s English, “you don’t know what a cable tie is? Don’t worry, I’ll find them myself.”

So now my girlfriend’s waiting at home, the assistant’s warily eyeing me from a distance and I’m falling apart in the lampshade aisle.

So I decide to do what any sensible, self-respecting man would do in this situation.

When I get home, my girlfriend is standing there, arms folded, eyebrow raised, foot tapping.

“Sorry love, they’re out of cable ties but here’s a bag of your favourite pic n mix.”

Bluffing and sweets. It works every time.