AS you well know, my wife never gets anything wrong. Throughout our relationship, which spans three decades, it has been me who has been responsible for any mistakes which have occurred.

Just lately, however, her mask of infallibility has started to slip.

In my last column, I told how she had taken full control of the preparations for Jack, our third-born, going to Cambridge University. She’s done a splendid job, but I couldn’t resist reporting how she’d insisted on him packing his trunks for the “pool room”, which turned out to be a room with a pool table, rather than the swimming pool, sauna and jacuzzi she’d imagined in her excitement.

Well, I have to say that the pool incident has paled into insignificance alongside the student loan saga, which has come to light over the past week.

As usual, my wife had assumed control of Jack’s finances in the weeks leading up to his departure on the grounds that:

a) I’m hopeless when it comes to money matters.

b) So is Jack.

c) She doesn’t credit either of us with any common sense.

Jack has now been at university for a month and has settled in well. He’s working hard on his English studies and appears to have made some good friends. On the rare occasions he calls, he sounds happy.

The only issue has surrounded his student loan. My wife had filled in all the forms, made the relevant calls, and given Jack the necessary instructions – but none of the money had made it into his account.

“I don’t understand it,” she said to me. “Jack’s loan still hasn’t gone through – they’re absolutely useless.”

Naturally, I felt compelled to be supportive and understanding, so I chipped in by saying things like: “Yeah, flaming Student Loans Company!

Bloody Banks! Rubbish!”

It was only when our youngest, Max, suddenly had a significant windfall in his bank account that the real reason for the delay became apparent.

Max is quite a good saver but, given that he only has a paper round, the £1,000 boost to his finances came as a bit of a surprise. We couldn’t understand why he was flush and Jack was skint.

It transpired that my wife had got her sons mixed up. She’d put Max’s bank account details on the SLC forms instead of Jack’s. It wasn’t the fault of the Student Loans Company.

Or the bank. Or Jack. Or even me. It was her mistake.

She telephoned the bank to get the money transferred, but it’s not that easy. The operator at the bank’s call centre explained to my wife that she’s not allowed to make the transfer because it isn’t her account – it has to be made by Max.

“He’s only 15!” she protested, but it was to no avail.

She now has to take Max into the bank so he can provide some security details before any of the money can be transferred.

Max, who’s desperate to buy a new drum kit, is understandably in no rush to make the trip to the bank.

Jack, meanwhile, is continuing to lose weight.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

EARLIER this year, I spoke to Shadforth WI, near Durham, and the competition for their meeting was “The Things Kids Say”.

The winner was one about Charlotte, who had just started school when she wet her pants.

Her resourceful teacher gave her a spare pair and told her to ask her mummy to wash them and bring them back the next day.

Her daddy took her to school the following morning and, on arrival, Charlotte saw her teacher in the doorway.

Across the crowded playground and in front of groups of parents at the school gates, she shouted at the top of her voice: “Miss, Miss, my Daddy’s got your knickers in his pocket.”

ANOTHER WI member passed on a story about how she’d been on holiday abroad and swam to the side of the pool.

A little girl said: “Hello, I like your swimsuit.”

“Thank you,” said the woman.

“I’ve got one like it,” replied the little girl. “But I’ve got the flat sort.”