I am a man who orders combs when drunk

The doorbell used to mean there was a high probability of a bailiff, so my policy was very straightforward: never answer the door.

A young lady, almost certainly a student, had put the house address as her own by mistake and had been told her package had been delivered.

She came back a few times to see whether it had, and even showed me a photo taken by the driver of a hand about to push a squishy package through what looked very much like the house’s letterbox.

Then the door went again, but instead of my new friend it was a delivery person with a parcel for me.

How exciting! A cuboid cardboard box, about six inches on.

Still, it’s not exactly rock bottom, is it? I can’t really imagine coming out with My Comb Shame at a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous .

My Poetry Shame might get a bit more traction, but then again everyone else might think I’m a bit of a knob.