So I’m pretty sure I was the closest I’ve ever come to being arrested on Saturday. Well, except for that time when I was 13 and was caught shoplifting, but fortunately I only tried that once, mostly due to the shame of having to admit my ‘booty’ was actually a calculator ruler.

Anyway, getting back to my more recent brush with authority, the day could not have started out any more innocently.

A friend and I did some shopping at Bicester Village, moved on to lunch at a lovely pub called The Two Fat Men, in Kingswood, then intended heading south to a village called Nether Winchendon, which is often featured in Midsomer Murders. Unfortunately though, on the way there, we decided to take a slight detour.

Now, before I tell you this story, I just want to say the ‘near arrest thing’ was a genuine error I think anybody could have made. I mean how were we to know we looked like we were casing the joint of one of the world’s most powerful men?

Admittedly there may have been one or two small or then again not-so-small signs that could have mentioned the words ‘trespassers’ and ‘prosecuted’. But seriously, half the estates across Oxfordshire have those signs, and usually the words are so tiny no-one could really be expected to make them out.

Besides, usually yelling a quick “sorry!”, whilst reversing down the drive having taken a couple of photos guarantees you avoid any trouble.

Although I guess with the benefit of hindsight, the giant metal fence with an even larger brick wall running alongside it and the rather large 4x4 parked across the driveway to stop you driving in, could have been a clue.

But in our defence, it’s not like there was a sign on the fence saying ‘don’t drive your bright pink Mini up our drive you stupid Antipodean tourist’.

Nor were there any signs in the village that said ‘if you get your fancy digital camera out you might be mistaken for a criminal studying the lay of the land’ either.

In fact, it wasn’t until we’d seemingly managed to ‘case the whole joint’ and were (oh how I cringe thinking of this now) calling out to the cute little ginger pussycat in the posh driveway, that we actually realised that the most sophisticated security system I’ve ever seen was tracking our progress.

I’m not really at liberty to say what happened after that. But needless to say I won’t be losing any sleep worrying if the owners of that particular £4m mansion are paying too much for their security.

Still, do you want to know the most embarrassing thing about the whole episode? It’s that it wasn’t actually until we got back to Oxford on Saturday evening and Googled where we’d been, that we discovered who owned the little ginger pussy cat.

Tony and Cherie Blair. Oops!