JUST when I think I am gaining control of my disobedient body, something
happens to send me straight back to square one.

Take the other day, when Mrs Hextol and I were in Hexham, enjoying a hearty breakfast at a well-known hostelry.

I had the full works, with a large plate brimming with fried eggs, bacon, beans, sausages, hash browns, mushrooms and a large tomato, lavishly festooned with toast and butter.

I received the usual warning from Mrs Hextol: “Now don’t go dribbling beans and egg yolk down your shirt like you usually do, or I won’t walk down Fore Street with you. Nobody wants to see your dinner medals.”

I managed to consume the entire meal without spilling a drop – and very tasty it was too – and even negotiated the accompanying cappuccino without acquiring a frothy moustache.

All that was left was the toast, and even I would struggle to make a mess of my clothes with that, I thought.

That was until I prised open the little sachet of Lurpak which accompanied the meal – and watched in silent dismay as the molten contents cascaded down the front of my trousers.

Note to caterers; it is perhaps not a good idea to serve butter in close contact with sizzling sausages and hot beans, as it will struggle to maintain its solid state.

It was hard to believe that such a miniscule packet could contain so much liquid, and by the time I had reacted, the front of my trousers was already displaying a spreading dark stain.

Mrs Hextol looked on, loaded fork frozen in front of her face, as she contemplated walking down Fore Street with an overgrown toddler who looked as though he had wet himself.

Then she shook her head and carried on eating as I dabbed ineffectually at my greasy groin.

Her butter was, of course, perfectly fine, as she had taken the elementary precaution of moving hers away from the hot food.

As we walked down opposite sides of Fore Street, me with an Edinburgh Woollen Mill carrier bag strategically placed, I could not help wondering what cruel twist of fate had left me so ill equipped for avoiding the misfortunes of life.

I remember as a very young boy, toddling through the back garden at home and standing on the front of my trolley – as pushchairs were known in the early 50s – the handle of which flipped up and caught me above the left eye, necessitating a trip to Macclesfield Infirmary for a couple of stitches.

I had only had the bike I was given by my proud parents for passing my 11 plus a matter of a fortnight when I pedalled out of a road junction and was mown down by an RAC patrolman on his motorbike and sidecar, shortly after being wiped out by a coal wagon when attempting to take a catch in a game of street cricket.

I was getting to be on first name terms with the staff at the infirmary, where I seemed to have my own dedicated bed.

Not all unfortunate incidents required hospital treatment, although I did think I might need my stomach pumped when I was riding my bike along the towpath of an unsavoury section of the Macclesfield Canal and got too close to the edge, somehow managing to fall in among the industrial effluvia and illegally- euthanised dogs.

At the same time, I was developing my uncanny knack of falling over for no apparent reason, such as the day I was entrusted with taking a paper carrier bag filled with sterilised milk bottles back to the local shop to claim the penny back on each bottle for the purchase of sweets.

Down I went 50 yards away from the shop, and for some reason, the surly shopkeeper would not exchange a clattering bag of glittery shards for a penny arrow bar and two sherbert dabs.

In later life, I remember going to meet a minor member of the nobility for work purposes, and striding forward with my hand outstretched ready to greet him.

Unfortunately, I had not realised there was a step to negotiate between us, and over I went, finishing up prostrated on the carpet in front of his lordship like a traveller seeking passage through the sacred lands of a Matabele chieftain.

Peering down at me from a great height, and barely suppressing a smirk, the august personage drawled: “No need for that sort of thing these days old boy; a handshake would have sufficed.”