I MAY have survived for 60 years, but whenever I venture to London, I turn into a cross between Mr Bean and Frank Spencer.

Organisation has never been a core strength, but the big city is all too much for a simple northern lad like me. There are too many people, too much traffic, and The Tube is hell on earth.

My latest trip to the capital was my worst yet, despite getting off to a promising start. The journey from Darlington to King’s Cross passed uneventfully, and it was lovely to meet up with my daughter at an Indian restaurant near the station.

The turning point came when she handed me a home-made Christmas wreath to deliver to her Grandma when I returned to the North-East. Contained inside a brown paper bag, it was beautifully decorated with pinecones, dried orange slices, wax cherries, holly, and a festive red ribbon.

It was a kind thought but, quite frankly, I could have done without something else to carry in addition to my lap-top case and overnight bag. Nevertheless, I promised I’d handle it with care as we said our goodbyes, and I set off in search of my hotel.

Following Google Maps isn’t easy when you’re juggling your phone with three bags, and what should have been a 15-minute walk took twice as long because Google got itself into a fluster.

Then, when I finally made it, the receptionist told me I was at the wrong Travelodge. The one I was booked into was a mile away, back in the direction I’d just come from.

The next morning, I had to get deep into the city and, to save cash, I plumped for the tube rather than a taxi. Rush hour on the London Underground is hard enough at the best of times, but it’s torture when you’re carrying three bags, with a delicate Christmas wreath in one of them.

Three stops, crushed on a Northern Line train, were followed by two more on the Central Line. By the time I emerged into daylight, the rain was lashing down and, with hindsight, I should have jumped into a cab. Instead, I foolishly decided to walk the rest of the way – only for Google Maps to get all confused again.

Increasingly desperate, I rang my daughter for advice on how to get to the offices where my training course was being held. As the rain intensified, she called up a map on her home computer, and calmly talked me through every turn until I made it – bedraggled – with minutes to spare.

“Sorry, sir, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place,” the receptionist told me.

I could have sobbed. Back out into the rain, and too embarrassed to call my daughter again, I returned to Google, which told me I was facing another 13-minute walk in the rain.

Just then, the Christmas wreath fell through the soggy bottom of the brown paper bag, and into a puddle, as two frosted pine cones and a wax cherry rolled down the hill.

“STOP THEM!” I found myself screaming at strangers as I splashed in vain pursuit. Not one commuter bothered to help, which tells you all you need to know about London.

Eventually, 40 minutes late, I burst into the training course, looking like a drowned rat, and getting lots of sympathetic looks. I had my lap-top case in one hand, my overnight bag in the other, and a sorry-looking Christmas wreath tucked under my right arm.

“I’m from the north,” I explained.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

At a meeting of the Friends Together group at Crook, volunteer Angela Priestley remembered her little boy, Michael, came home from school and announced that God’s real name was ‘Harold’.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because we say ‘Our father, who art in heaven, Harold me thy name,’” came the reply.

ANGELA also recalled the time she’d served up peaches and cream for tea

“Those peaches were really tasty – they came from Australia,” she announced, reading the label on the tin.

“That’s not true,” replied her little boy, Michael. “They were from Tesco – I was with you when you bought them.”