Another fine mess leaves my reputation in tatters

Last week I told how my wife’s black eye had people thinking the worst, and just days after ‘Shinergate’ I ended up in another compromising situation that wasn’t of my own making.

We’d been asked to bring our driving licences into work for a routine check but I couldn’t locate mine.

My three-year-old daughter Lucy asked what I was doing running about the house in a tizzy and I explained I couldn’t find my licence, adding, “If I don’t have my driving licence I’m not allowed to drive.”

“But I want daddy to drive,” she demanded.

“Well then help daddy look for his licence then he’ll be allowed to drive again.”

Sure enough a few minutes later the panic was over and I’d found my licence in the folder where I should have checked in the first place, but hadn’t been able to locate because it was under a pile of junk.

I should probably have informed Lucy that I’d found my licence because later that day when we were out for a walk Lucy announced to a person I was chatting to that “Daddy is not allowed to drive his car because he has lost his licence”.

I tried to explain the amusing misunderstanding but I could see the person, whom I didn’t really know at all, giving me a funny look as if to say, ‘There’s no smoke without fire’.

You might be wondering why I was talking to someone who I hardly know at all, but that’s just what happens when you have children who approach strangers and ask them if they have any cats.

Anyway, I put the mishap behind me, only to learn that the following day I had to take the train to work due to circumstances beyond my control.

It didn’t help with the ‘lost licence’ rumours.

And then to top it all off I had arranged for Clint to pick me up in Lurgan.

Clint was running a bit late, as he occasionally does, so I suggested walking up the town to meet him halfway on his journey from Waringstown.

As a quick aside, some of you may know that Clint’s favourite pastime is airsoft, ie grown men shooting at each other with BB guns.

He told us in the office that his nickname at airsoft is Freight Train and we took him at his word.

However, it emerged a few weeks ago, after speaking to one of his airsoft buddies, that nobody calls him Freight Train during combat. If his nickname was based on what people shout at him during combat it would be ‘Duck’, ‘Hurry Up’ or ‘Seriously?!?!’.

Perhaps it’s not a wise idea to poke fun at someone like Clint who is not only heavily armed, but heavy in most other departments.

Anyway, one train was on time while the other was late, so I suggested meeting Clint at the top of Union Street. Bearing in mind my daughter had announced I’d lost my licence and I’d taken the train to work, the last place for me to be spotted was waiting patiently outside Lurgan Wine Company at 9.15am.

I shouted to anyone who would listen that I was waiting for a lift, but they almost surely presumed I was describing the beer buzz I get early in the morning.

It’s fair to say my reputation is in tatters. One week I’m a wife beater, the next I’ve lost my licence.

Tune in next week to find out what happened on my visit to St Trinian’s.