Husband and I were having such a lovely day. A moochy Sunday morning with an extra hour because the clocks went back. Drink in the pub  swiftly followed by pheasant cooked in cider and a calorific treacle tart. Soon fell asleep by the roaring fire and then it was time to see Skyfall, the 5pm performance which was so fab because it meant we would be back home in time for supper on a tray in front of Downton.

Got to the cinema. The tickets I had booked online a week before were  nowhere to be found. To give her her due, the girl at the box office looked everywhere. My heart was beginning to sink. OK I said. We can sort this out later, in the meantime we’ll pay for two more tickets. She blushed, embarrassed. Sorry, we’re sold out. To make matters worse, some friends of ours came bouncing up behind us in the queue. “We’ll let you know how good the film is” they kindly offered as Husband and I slunk out of the cinema tightlipped. We drove home in silence. Day ruined.

Of course Husband thanks me for this mini fiasco. And who can blame him? Not me. My past record isn’t that good I’m afraid. Like the time we were checking in for a long awaited romantic weekend in Paris. “Are you travelling alone?” the ground hostess asked my husband. “No. Of course not. My wife is coming too”. “No she isn’t sir, her passport has expired”.

Or when we were in the car on the way to Gatwick Airport when Husband asked me “North or South Terminal darling?”. “Terminal 4”  I replied – despite driving like Lewis Hamilton, we missed our flight from Heathrow and spent the next couple of hours giving the credit card a thrashing buying three more tickets.

Anyhow it seems that, on checking my computer, the online booking didn’t actually go through for Bond, James Bond. Grace, Idiot Grace. So it’s a bit frosty inside the house as well as outside tonight. Nothing that X Factor and a bottle of red can’t fix (I hope).

Anyone else got any equally hideous stories of cock ups you’ve made?  Or is it just me?