When I exposed to public ridicule the chaos that reigns within my addled brain, in this column last week, I did so partly because confession is good for the soul.

But part of me was also hoping that by detailing exactly how absent my mind can be, I might somehow be able to exorcise the demons that stop me from remembering life's little details.

You know the sort of thing. Stuff such as:

Don't leave your house keys on your desk at work

Do take your glasses with you when you go to work

Don't put your holiday tickets out with the rubbish as you set off for the airport

That last one almost cost me a holiday once. I realised what had happened halfway from house to check-in desk, executed a high-speed return to base and just about beat the bin men to the punch.

Until this last weekend I had never actually managed to miss a flight. What can I say? It really wasn't my fault, but I can't help but wonder if whatever I've got is contagious.

I had taken advantage of a ludicrously cheap Ryanair flight from Yarm to spend a weekend in Rome with a friend who has always seemed to be in full possession of her marbles. She took care of the flight; I organised the hotel.

We had a wonderful time. The weather was stunning, the food was a dream and the sights of Rome were inspirational.

Nothing, however, was quite as jaw-dropping to us as the sight of the departures board at Ciampino Airport when we got there soon after 5pm on Sunday.

Plenty of Ryanair flights were due in; it was just that none of them was ours. I have always been a bit slow on the uptake, and I just kept on looking at the board and waiting for it to make sense.

It was not until I shot a sideways glance at my friend and noticed her strangely grey complexion that I realised not everything in the garden was rosy.

"Oh, Fran," she said in a sickening, serious tone. "We've missed our flight. I thought we flew at seven, but it was 17.00."

Time for my face to turn grey.

I have always wondered how it would be if I ever missed a plane. In fact, I've had a longstanding paranoia about it and on Sunday I even irritated my friend by repeatedly nagging that we should get to the airport in plenty of time.

In the event, however, I felt amazingly calm when I realised our bird had flown. It had happened, and there wasn't a lot we could do but throw ourselves on the mercy of the Ryanair staff.

Who were great, as it happens. There was one heart-stopping moment when they said we would have to come back in the morning, but then remembered there was a delayed East Midlands flight they could just about squeeze us on.

I made a phone call to my incredulous, long-suffering Other Half, who agreed to come and collect us, and we dashed back to the Ryanair desk to confirm we were homeward bound. "Where's your passport?" the helpful assistant asked me in a conversational kind of a way. Where, indeed? I scrabbled around in my bag, my panic levels soaring.

Nothing.

I looked up to see Ms Ryanair stifling an attack of hysteria as she dangled my passport between her thumb and forefinger. I had accidentally left it at the desk earlier on.

My Other Half doesn't know this little detail yet. I wonder what will happen when he finds out.

Updated: 09:33 Wednesday, May 25, 2005