WE have had one of those weeks again, when the financial outlay and stress of unexpected events has keep us on our toes – and emptied our pockets.

Firstly, the other half’s tyre blew up whilst he was driving on the M3. Luckily, he was not hurt and was not driving at a speed or in a lane where he was in danger when it occurred.

He was able to manoeuvre the car into nearby services, where he attached the spare and made it home. I was surprised when, arriving late, he came in the door covered in grease and grime, and I was even more surprised by the amount of money needed to replace and repair the damaged tyre and its wheel rim. Alloys! Who’d have ‘em?

As a pessimist, I was expecting more to come our way. They say it comes in threes and that’s always been true for our house.

When one household appliance gives up, another two seem to sense it and join the club. And our plumbing must have known it was its turn.

I became aware of a strange and constant noise one evening a day or two after the tyre incident. I was then rather perturbed when I called my husband to take a look – and found that he wouldn’t move from the football match he was playing on his PlayStation.

After some evil stares and promises of retribution if he didn’t shift himself, immediately, he made his way upstairs and discovered that things had gone wrong in the attic water tank. And the toilet was a little bit banjaxed too.

So, it was straight onto a reputable plumber – and friend – who promised to come and take a look the next day.

Still, of course, I was waiting on incident number three. And it definitely happened, but not in our house, and not directly to us.

Instead, I received a phone call from my father, who was in Dundee coaching the Northern Ireland shooting team as part of the Glasgow Commonwealth Games.

He’d had a suspected bleed in one eye, which was being monitored by doctors, but woke up one morning with an awareness that something was more seriously wrong.

Cut to a few hours later, and he’d been admitted to the local hospital for an emergency operation on a detached retina. An operation which would render him unable to get home to Northern Ireland – he’d driven to the Games and travelled via ferry.

Thankfully, my brother lives in Edinburgh and was just an hour away, so was able to support Dad in hospital.

All went well, and the operation was a success. Plus, a very kind member of the Northern Ireland shooting team volunteered to drive Dad home in our car.

It’s been a rather frantic few days. If this week turns out to be desperately dull, that’ll be fine by me.