I have a reputation amongst my oldest friends -- which seemingly cannot be eroded by the passage of time or the semblance of sensible behaviour -- for being a bit daft.

To support their case I would like to direct you attention to the exhibit A -- The Kettle Incident. One morning at work I was gripped with the notion that I had left my electric fire on. I rushed back to my flat in my lunch hour to turn it off, fixed some lunch then returned to work. But then I became convinced that I might have left the hob on and fears of burning teatowels pervaded my mind.

When a friend eventually checked on the flat -- I was fresh out of lunch hours to rush back in -- she found that not only had I left it on, but I had removed the pan that I had used and replaced it, for no fathomable reason, with an extremely expensive chrome kettle whose black plastic handle was happily melting and bubbling all over the oven, filling the flat with acrid black fumes.

As my premonition had warned, several teatowels were lurking nearby ready to get in on the action.

In my defence I would like to state that absent-mindedness is often a feature of creative people. My mind, you see, is on higher things. This is a great defence because it suggests that mislaying tickets and filing important documents in the airing cupboard are traits and actions to be envied whilst intimating that those who manage to get out of the house without locking themselves in the porch are somehow lacking in mental fibre.

However, this doesn't work on everybody, particularly my other half who has been at the mercy of my most recent motor-related mishaps. First I lost his car keys, causing him to be late for work and lodging me firmly in the doghouse. The next day I left the car lights on and nearly drained the battery.

The following day I locked the keys in the boot of the car. Don't ask me how. One minute I was closing the boot and thinking what a downer it would be to lock your keys in there (possibly this was my subconscious screaming: "Earth to Nicola -- You are about to lock your keys in the boot").

Then half an hour later, keyless and puzzled, I realise that there was only one place they could be (Subconscious: "Doh!")

Needless to say, my boyfriend suspects he is going out with Frank Spencer.

At least my family is used to it. My older sister, who has never got over the fact that my "nice new shoulder bag" turned out to be a CD carry case (I did wonder what all the disc shaped pockets were for), gives me the look -- the one which says "and you have a Master's degree?"

I've thought about changing, making a concerted effort to be a practical, sensible person. But where's the fun in that?

So, I've decided to wait 50 years or so -- by which time I reckon losing one's keys, leaving the gas on and getting lost in your own neighbourhood will be perfectly acceptable behaviour.