So here’s a fun thing that happened to me over the Easter weekend.

I got ID-ed.

(That’s not the fun thing.)

Being baby of face, I’m fairly used to this scenario so flashed the cashier what I imagined to be an amused, world-weary and above all mature grin and handed over my learner’s driving licence.

The cashier looked from the card to me to the card again.

“Is not valid,” she barked.

I was ready for this too. Cashiers in England tend to have a bit of blind spot when it comes to Scottish banknotes and learner’s licences, and needless to say, I have a speech prepared for both occasions. I gave a droll chuckle and assured the cashier that driving licences were perfectly acceptable forms of identification.

“No. Is not valid.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying I’ve faked my ID?” I bleated. “This is ridiculous.” Then I added, unnecessarily dickishly, “Perhaps we should ask your supervisor?”

“No. I mean is EXPIRED.”

And it only bloody was. My learner’s driving licence expired in October last year.

I remember getting that licence aged 17 and thinking that I would be dead in ten years’ time. But here I was aged 28 in Sainsbury’s, clutching a bottle of gin and STILL NOT ABLE TO DRIVE.

The cashier gave me a look that encompassed the fury of Peter and the pity of the Madonna and bleeped the gin through.

I tried to say something witty, apologetic and self-effacing, but something was wrong with my face and all that came out was “Nuh. Nuhhhhhh.”

I need a new speech.