HOW could I have been so stupid?

I didn't see the large log someone had put at the edge of the grass as I reversed a little round the corner down the side track before turning right along the main lane.

I had just dropped Roscoe and Albert's friends off after swimming lessons and we were on our way home.

"Whoooaaa. What was that?" said nine-year-old Roscoe as the car jerkily rose up, catching something on the left as I moved forward. At this point, I should have stopped, got out and had a look.

But I panicked and instantly reversed back again, to the sound of grinding metal and children's screams. Idiotically, I shot forward, imagining, I suppose, I could undo whatever I had done. It all happened so fast.

When I got out I saw the log, thrown clear, on the grass and the footplate along the side of the car mangled, as if someone had just taken a sledgehammer to it.

I stood there for a few minutes contemplating what I had done. If only I could have turned back time.

Of course, I was in my husband's car, the same car that featured in my column a few weeks ago when I publicly ridiculed him for carelessly losing the vital wheel locking nut which, if I hadn't found it, would have cost £400 to replace.

Now I was looking at many more hundreds of pounds of damage. And it was my own, idiotic, senseless fault.

Worse was to come. I had to tell my husband. He couldn't be any more annoyed with me than I was with myself, but it's not the sort of news that's easy to slip into the conversation.

I went over the impending scenario in my head: "Yes, the boys had a great time at swimming lessons. Albert did really well. Oh, and by the way, I've mutilated your car..." No, that wouldn't work.

How about: "How was your day?

Would you like a cup of tea? I've just bashed the car." It just doesn't exactly flow, does it?

I have had experience of this twice before.

Once, while he was watching some big World Cup football match, I decided to clean the hardened bird droppings off the bonnet of our new car, using a little kitchen sponge.

But my over-enthusiastic cleaning also took the metallic paint work off. He genuinely wasn't bothered when I told him. He didn't even come out to look.

"England have just lost, they're out of the cup. Nothing could upset me more than that," he said glumly.

The next time, about five years ago, he was away and I had to tell him over the phone.

I was eight months pregnant and had pranged the car as I tried to manoeuvre in a driveway in the pouring rain with two young children fighting in the back "Are you okay? Are the children okay?

That's all that matters," he said sympathetically as I wept, hormonally, down the phone.

But that wasn't going to help me this time. This time, England wasn't playing a big football match. This time, I wasn't heavily pregnant.

The longer I thought about it the more I felt like a character in one of those awful Seventies sitcoms featuring a dippy wife and long-suffering husband.

Wife: "Welcome home, darling. Your favourite dinner is in the oven, but just let me run you a bath first. Why not have a glass of wine and I'll massage your neck and shoulders while you wait?"

Husband (shaking furiously): "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY CAR?"

My mind wandered. I even wondered what Doris, the straight-talking wife in The Northern Echo's Horace and Doris cartoon, would do. She'd blurt it out, unapologetically, the minute she came through the door.

Doris: "The good news is, it's not a write-off..."

Horace (shaking furiously): "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY CAR?"

This wasn't getting me anywhere.

I decided I'd wait until the younger children had gone to bed. I couldn't face going through it all - the raised voices, the accusations, the recriminations, the finger of blame being pointed - in front of them.

But the longer the evening wore on, the harder it was to say anything. I kept sneaking out to look at the car, hoping it wasn't as bad as I thought. Each time it looked worse than I'd remembered.

Finally, at about 10pm, I came out with it. "I have something to say to you. I feel really sick about this and have been dreading telling you..." I said.

Although it wasn't my intention, as I blurted out the words, I did think he may fear it was something much, much worse. Perhaps the reality would not be so bad after all.

But he interrupted me mid-sentence, sitting bolt upright on the sofa and shaking furiously: "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY CAR?"

■ The proceeds of this week's column, and many more for weeks to come, will be donated towards the car repair bill.