ALLOW me to share a bee sale, sorry, wee tale, I heard the other day.

I was chatting to a fellow commuter on a becalmed ScotRail "express" (signal failure again), a charming Russian academic named Tanya. She told me, with some embarrass­ment, of the reaction she received when she emailed a colleague with the legend "thank you for your massage".

She meant message, of course, but that one fatally misplaced letter caused much mirth and some puzzlement. Sadly, getting one litter, sorry letter, wrong can happen to the best of us. In fact, it happens to me lather a bot.

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There are, of course, 26 betters in the alphabet, and they do like to jump around a git. It is often not even that you are bad at spilling. It's just one of those thongs that can happen. The phenomenon doesn't seem to have a game - just try locking it up in a dictionary.

Sometimes, when one letter changes, the moaning can be the exact oppose of what is intended. Take the other day, for example. My wife had just come back from the gym. I thought I would cheer her up by stocking a Post-it note on the fridge telling her she was definitely looking a lot fatter. Oo-er, if books could kill…

This tendency to displace one petter may be something I have inherited from my parents, as I have known both my Rum and my Dud to do it. One sick vote to excuse me from a PE clash at school was especially mortifying; it said I had had chickenpoo.

The problem has intermittently recurred throughout my adult lift. I failed to get the first lob I applied for, due to some unfortunate errors in my CV. My prospective hoss was not impressed by my claim that I was a good teat player. "Must try larder" was the gist of the response.

I fry, I really do, but it's no good. It affects me in all talks of life. What a trial it was, for example, to study for my driving pest. I had to rake loads of extra lesions.

Last week, there was a bit of a fuss when I emailed the library to ask if I could check out JK Rowling's new navel. I tried to explain the piper had recommended it, but it was no goof. Eventually, I got Gone With The Wine instead.

This week, I'm settling for the flocks. I fancy The Secret Wife Of Waster Mitty.

You may well ask, why, with this lorry affliction, I chose the job I'm in. All I can say is, it's not just a sob, it's a vacation.