Let's not beat around the bush. Barbara likes to hold a grudge.

Well, maybe, that's too simplistic. It's more like a little mental store she can dip in and out of when it's opportune to remind me of how inept I am.

The conversation usually starts like this: "I love you, dearly... but (add selected item from a plethora of innocent cock ups during 12 years of relationship)."

I am still reminded/poked in the ribs about misdemeanours committed in the late nineties.

When I mislaid the gate key to Links Allotments the other day, I knew the best option was to run out of the front door and keep running, rather than incure the steely glares.

After 30 minutes hunting and returning to seven spots I had fumbled around at least 20 times, I found the key in the pocket of the shorts I had been wearing the day before on the plot.

Logic would have led you to this hiding place half an hour before. I tried to laugh it off, didn't work.

But karma had its way. By 5pm none of the seven (count them) horses I had in the Grand National finished within a mile of the winner and my rugby team had been defeated by the side second bottom of the league.

That'll teach me. I won't lose the key again in a hurry.