Last updated 13:33, Thursday, 17 July 2008

THE other week I was writing about my desire to have the power to make myself invisible at appropriate moments.

As is my wont, the reverse seems to have happened. While I remain larger than life and twice as portly, many other things and people have become invisible to me.

Chief in these is Mrs Hextol, who has the capacity to vanish like smoke in the wind before my very eyes.

Take the other day; we were shopping in Tesco, which is not a chore I enjoy at the best of times.

I was in charge of the trolley, as usual smuggling out the unnecessary fripperies like egg timers and pan stands which Mrs Hextol collects, and paused for a couple of seconds to scan the amusing array of saucy greetings cards which would have got the shop closed down not so long ago.

I looked up – and Mrs Hextol had disappeared from the face of the planet.

I strolled to the next aisle, and the one after that, and finally, traversed the length of the store, and of Mrs Hextol there was not a single sign.

I retraced my steps, looking closely at every aisle, and even doing a sweep of the dreaded clothes department, but she simply wasn’t there.

I even went outside, to see if she had returned to the car, and went so far as to glance heavenwards, to see if I could pick up the vapour trail of some passing Venusian spacecraft which may have spirited her away.

I even thought of approaching one of those fierce looking security men, to ask if they had seen her, and then I realised I would probably be asked what she was wearing – and I didn’t have a clue.

Just as I was starting to panic, she materialised five yards away from where I had last seen here, looking as serene as ever.

“Where’ve you been?” I spluttered. “I’ve looked all over the store, and you weren’t here. Did you forget something in Aldi?”

She looked at me with that slightly puzzled frown I know so well and said: “I’ve never moved from this spot. You wandered off, and I’ve been watching you charging up and down the store.

“Your trouble is, you never look.”

And with that, she swept on round the store, refilling the trolley with the items I had removed earlier.

She also has the knack of making things disappear in the house, and then sending me to look for them.

Frequently, she’ll despatch me up the stairs, to fetch some item of clothing from her wardrobe.

Be it cardigan, fleece, jumper or shoes, they are never where she says they are.

“They are at the left hand side, near the bottom,” she’ll instruct, but instead of the black lace-up shoes, all I can see is the holdall with the photographs in, a washbag, and a stack of holiday brochures.

After a hopeful rummage, I’ll shout: “They’re not here,” to which comes an icy retort: “Of course they are; I saw them there this morning.”

Vigorous, hopeless rooting follows for the next five minutes, before she comes pounding upstairs, thrusts me out of the way, and picks up the shoes, which were of course exactly where she said they were.

“Well they weren’t there before,” I say lamely, as she stumps back downstairs.

The disappearing act is of course a family trait, for some weeks ago I was obliged to walk the dog, and take the two youngest grandchildren with me.

Taking charge of a cerebrally challenged dog is one thing, but also looking after two children under three at the same time is something else, especially as I had instructions not to let the 18-month-old one fall over and muck up his clean trousers.

We made slow, but steady progress, with three-year-old Abbey chatting merrily away, while little Alex solemnly examined every buttercup and daisy on the path.

I was showing Abbey how to insert a grass stalk into a slug’s breathing hole when I realised Alex could no longer be seen.

Two seconds seemed like two millennia, as I ran back the way we had come – and there he was, lying on his back in the long grass, watching a butterfly extracting nectar from a clump of vetch.

Yes, his clean trousers were a little muddy, but it was such a relief to find him, I did not mind the rollicking.