MY poor, poor wife. All she was doing was obeying her tennis coach's instructions: "You have to follow through with your forehand," he said, demonstrating how the shot should be played.

So when the ball came to her in our mixed doubles' match, she followed through so well that she smashed herself in the head with her racket. Don't ask me how, she just did. The crack sounded like a pistol going off and the blood started to flow almost immediately. Within seconds, her forehead was hideously swollen to the extent that Jack, 11, remarked while she was having First Aid: "Mum, you look like a Klingon from Star Trek."

The following morning, not only did she have a Klingon forehead and a thumping headache, but her eyes were black as a panda's, and a trip to the doctor was called for to check that there was no fractured skull. So much for tennis being a genteel sport. Even the doctor had to be warned by the receptionist not to be shocked, so dramatic was the result of the coaching advice.

More than a week after the forehand smash to beat all forehand smashes, my poor, poor wife still looks like the victim of a road accident, or someone who's just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. The kids have started calling her Shaun of the Dead, and eight-year-old Max insists that she shows her injuries to all his friends at school. "She looks like a cross between a zombie and a racoon, doesn't she?" he proudly told his best pal when she obligingly removed her dark glasses.

Thankfully, there is no lasting damage and she'll be back to normal in a couple of weeks. But whether my reputation survives intact is another matter. It is a sad fact of life that the first thing people think of when they see a woman with black eyes is that she's been beaten by a man.

"What on earth happened to you?" has been the question repeated by every friend, neighbour or minor acquaintance.

And the answer "Oh, I hit myself in the head with a tennis racket," just doesn't sound convincing.

There was even one friend who replied: "Why did you do that?"

It's hard to think what he thought the answers might be: "Oh, I just thought I'd give myself a good whack on the head with a tennis racket to see what it was like, why do you think?"

"Well, I had this wasp land between my eyes so I took aim and gave it a taste of my topspin."

"Do you know, I just wasn't playing well and I thought it might help me focus."

I know there is natural suspicion out there: in the doctor's surgery, at the school gates, in the corner shop. Consequently, I feel I have to constantly state the case for the defence to whoever we meet. I met a notable local businessman the other day and introduced him to my wife. "She hit herself in the head with a tennis racket," I found myself explaining straight away. "Her coach told her to follow through."

It was all I could do to resist adding: "It wasn't me, honest" as he stood there, nodding, with a definite hint of cynicism in his eyes.

So if you happen to see my poor, poor wife, by all means let her have your sympathy.

But also spare a thought for the innocent defendant who finds himself taking a sharp intake of breath every morning as he wakes up staring at someone looking like Alice Cooper after a hard night on the road. Then ask yourself who's the real victim here.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THE kids have all started wearing black and white wristbands to signify their opposition to racism. "Are you a racist, Dad?" asked Max, aged eight, questioning why I wasn't wearing black and white wristbands like him. I turned the question round and asked him to explain racism to me. "Well, it's like someone living in a house with a white door, next to someone living in a house with a black door, and the person living in the house with the white door thinking he's better than the person living in the house with the black door and it's only paint," he replied. I'm now wearing the wristbands.

ANTONIA Haswell, aged eight, was telling her Grandma - Pat Heslop, of Sunderland Floral Art Club - how her pet rabbit Bradley was recovering from "the snip". "It must be very sore," sympathised Grandma. "Oh no," replied Antonia, "it's just like a facelift."

* Requests have come in for copies of the first Dad At Large book which is sold out. If anyone has a spare copy, we'll sell it on at half price, with all proceeds going to the Butterwick Children's Hospice. Please send them to The Northern Echo, Priestgate, Darlington, County Durham, DL1 1NF or hand them in to our reception.