In the darkness I'd walk the oval's perimeter hoping like hell that some other kid hadn't made off with my maroon and white striped ensemble.

Invariably they hadn't.

I dreaded being sent to Dad's shed to fetch tools.

I could never locate the required implement.

After several minutes I'd report back to him that it could not possibly be found.

''If I go over there and find it, I'm gonna kick your arse,'' was a typical response.

Dad would spot the desired wrench/hammer/ride-on lawn mower within a nanosecond of entering the shed: ''What do you call this? A ham sandwich?''

He sure loves a rhetorical question, my old man.

And he's partial to likening inanimate objects to venomous reptiles: ''If it was a brown snake it would have bitten you.''

I cannot explain my total inability to find things any better now than I could as a boy.

I still sport the same glazed expression and offer a shrug of the shoulders when my girlfriend searches for my misplaced mobile phone.

It would be convenient for me to say that I'm just not materially minded. Possessions have little hold on me.

But that wouldn't necessarily be accurate.

My neglect extends much further than merely losing things.

There is an established pattern of self-sabotage that would be a perfect premise for a psychology thesis.

I do not open letters from the bank, phone or power company when I receive them.

If I don't read it, then it's not real.

For some reason the good people at Mastercard think differently.

Reality usually arrives several weeks after I have cast an unopened envelope into the bottom draw.

It comes in the form of a cancellation notice (you can make out the red type through the clear panel on the front of the envelope) and is hurriedly paid.

Car registration poses particular difficulties.

There is so much to be done - green slip, pink slip etc.

And I feel the RTA errs in sending you the rego sticker.

I thought I'd done really well one year by getting the pink slip inspection done.

When the mechanics gave my little chariot their seal of approval I promptly affixed the sticker to the windscreen.

How was I supposed to know you have to actually go to the RTA?

A week later I got a notice saying my car was unregistered. Actually the notice turned up at my parents house - if it had come to me I would not have opened it.

Full of indignation I strode into the local RTA office brandishing my pink slip, which remarkably I still had.

A very genteel customer service representative explained that payment was required.

Realising my mistake I tried to cover my tracks by saying: ''Yeah I know, but my girlfriend just stuck it on the car. Sheesh, women!''

I was single at the time and the redness in my face betrayed me.

''Well, tell your girlfriend not to do that again,'' the lady said sarcastically.

Anyway this year I'm on top of the situation.

The pink slip is done, the green slip is paid and I'm going up to the RTA in my lunch hour today.

Ah, bugger it....it can wait until tomorrow.