THE older I get, the more time I seem to spend in the doghouse. Usually, I’m not sure why I’m in there, but last week’s visit was my own fault.

You see, I’d lost my debit card. I’d been to the gym and, the next morning, there was no sign of it. It hadn’t been handed in at the leisure centre, it wasn’t in my suit trousers or jacket, and it hadn’t fallen down the back of any of our chairs.

There was no option but to cancel it and order a new one. The bank said it would take a week, but confirmed that nothing untoward had happened to the account.

My wife sighed when I told her, but the loss of my debit card wasn’t enough to warrant an official period in the doghouse. These things happen.

There was another sigh the next day – this time significantly deeper – when my debit card turned up in the shorts I’d worn to the gym before bunging them in the washing machine.

“There’s your card,” said my wife, slapping it on the dining room table.

Too late. It was defunct. The new one was on its way.

My wife shook her head because she’s used to me losing things, but this still wasn’t sufficient reason to be sent to the doghouse.

A week or so passed and my new debit card arrived in the post. Financial freedom had returned in the shape of a little piece of plastic.

“Try not to lose it,” said my wife. I promised to do my best.

As I walked past the kitchen worktop, I saw my old debit card and decided I’d better dispose of it to make sure it didn’t get mixed up with its shiny replacement.

I began to bend it in half. A white crease began to form down the middle and then the beginnings of a small crack. It was then, to my horror, that I noticed the name on the card: MRS HEATHER BARRON.

I’d assumed it was mine – but it wasn’t. It was hers. My blood turned to ice. A bead of cold sweat meandered from my neck along my spine.

I froze, with my wife’s bent debit card in my hands, and let out a whimper.

It was similar to the feeling of panic I had several years ago when I caught the inflatable paddling pool with the lawn-mower. I’d tried to hold back the leak with my bare hands, and then with some electrician’s tape, while I considered my options, which included blaming a squirrel. Fear makes your mind work in strange ways.

This time, I Instinctively started rubbing my wife’s wonky red debit card along the crack in the desperate hope that it would be magically mended – like Uri Geller in reverse.

When that didn’t work, I confess that I considered a very risky strategy.

I was going to hide the card, then tut, roll my eyes and sigh when she asked me if I’d seen it.

“You really need to be more careful,”

I was going to say.

But, as with the gashed paddling pool, I decided against such a gamble.

It would have meant digging a bigger hole, a crisis of conscience, and sleepless nights.

My wife was doing something in the kitchen, with her back to me, and I decided it was best to own up: “Heather. I’ve done something really stupid,” I said.

“What?” she asked, turning round.

“I’ve broken your debit card,” I explained, handing it to her in its damaged state, the two halves at 45 degrees to each other.

I thought I might get some credit for my honesty. I was wrong – I got the red card. The doghouse was cold.

MORE memories from Ravensworth Women’s Institute...

Val Coe remembered her son James’ first day at school and she asked what he’d had for lunch.

“We had tea-bag meat,” he replied.

“You had what?” asked his mum.

“Tea-bag meat,” insisted James.

Val asked the dinner lady to solve the puzzle the next day.

James had had ravioli – and it’s still called tea-bag meat in their family to this day.