Last updated 13:26, Thursday, 30 October 2008

HAVE you ever had one of those weeks when you wish you had been confined to bed for seven days?

Nothing serious, you understand, just enough for me to look suitably pale and interesting, while Mrs Hextol mops my brow with a scented towel and spoons chicken soup betwixt my cracked lips.

Perhaps the grandchildren might drop by with a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade.

Sadly, it didn’t happen, and the week from Hell swept me along from one disaster to another.

I hadn’t even got out of bed the other day when the troubles began.

The ceaseless drip, drip, drip of rain which has provided an endless back beat to this sorry summer was more persistent than ever.

However, it transpired this drip was coming from inside the house, rather than outside.

There was a merry little trickle coming down inside the airing cupboard, courtesy of a dodgy bit of lead flashing around the chimney.

I had to squeeze into the loft to mop up, ever conscious of the likelihood that my balancing on the beams concealed by the loft insulation was less than Blondin-like.

I fully expected to plunge through the ceiling, but somehow managed to stay aloft – but my thighs throbbed for the rest of the week.

I am still waiting for someone to come to effect permanent repairs to the roof, however.

I was still recovering from that when I was obliged to make a trip in the darkest depths of Kielder Forest, an expedition which meant the opening of many gates, the fording of many streams, and clattering over many cattle grids.

I somehow contrived to misjudge my tortuous entry into one rustic roadblock, and succeeded in gouging an interesting new pattern into the rear quarter of my car.

Initial estimates put the cost of repairs at somewhere between £600 and £900.

Finally, might I extend an apology to the 1,001 frustrated shoppers who were unfortunate enough to be behind me in the queue for the self-service checkout at Tesco the other night?

Not for the first time, I have to admit being completely baffled by the technology, which two little girls from Corbridge Middle School had demonstrated seconds before.

All I wanted was three sliced loaves, after an unexpected run on crusty cobs had left the Hextol Towers bread bin emptier that Newcastle United’s trophy cabinet.

A little judicious palpating of the Hovis saw me heading for the check-outs with three fine samples of the baker’s art.

Alas, just about every regular till was occupied by burly ladies who seemed to be laying in provisions for an extended siege.

Then I spotted the two little girls at the self-service till, whizzing through their trolley like a cheetah through a Thompson’s gazelle, as their mother packed the bag.

Then it was my turn, and a little retail constipation set in.

I scanned the loaves all right, but when I proffered my slightly shop-soiled fiver in payment, the machine did not want to know.

I then realised I had not pressed the little button indicating my preferred method of payment, and tried to insert the note again.

The machine still would not take it, so I decided the note was too shabby even for Tesco, and essayed a tenner instead.

This was accepted more readily – but then remained stubbornly in the slot, tantalisingly out of reach.

I was aware of engines running in the burgeoning queue behind me – and then noticed I had inserted my note into the slot reserved for vouchers, rather than notes.

Attempts to fish it out using a finger nail proved fruitless.

Red-faced, I had to summon an assistant, who produced a gaoler’s bunch of keys, and opened up the humming machine to retrieve my tenner.

Even the Queen looked embarrassed as I inserted her glowing face into the right slot, and waited for my change in order to beat a hasty retreat.

Instead of the expected £7.50, only £2.50 was regurgitated, and I was busily thrusting my fingers into the dispenser in search of the missing fiver when I was tapped on the shoulder by the next person in the queue, which now snaked the length of the store.

He pointed wordlessly to yet another slot, where my fiver was awaiting collection.

I scooped it up, and slunk out of the store feeling as popular as Joey Barton

Next time, I’ll just wait in the proper queue.