The Walter Mitty moment was just the beginning.
In the past, I have never been very good with keys. I've stranded a group of American tourists in Stratford-upon-Avon as a result of dropping the bus keys in the long grass whilst taking some exercise on my driving break. I've been unable to turn the keys off or stop a bus because there were no keys. I had left them on top of the diesel tank in the depot. I even locked my then six month old daughter in a bus, in the depot with the engine running at 6 o'clock in the morning. A gust of wind had slammed the main door shut while I was carrying a bag full of bottles and Heinz baby food for the day out.
So do not be surprised when I tell you that I have lost my car keys. When I was driving the Nelson Society around a couple of weeks ago, a hole developed in my trouser pocket and they slipped out. They are somewhere in Northumberland. Somewhere within a 100 miles radius. I've looked everywhere. Believe me, everywhere, down to unpicking the stitching of my underwear.
It is unfortunately a Japanese car which means it will involve tow trucks, computers, main dealer replacement keys and the cost will be about two and a half weeks of bus drivers' wages.
I am going to appeal to Private Eye and ask if they will run a 'busdriverballs' fund.
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