Magpie Mary causes no end of trouble | Steve Canavan

There was nothing untoward about this encounter. Chance would be a fine thing.

The girl worked at a children’s soft play centre, where I had, 20 minutes earlier, been attending a toddler’s party.

It is about the 16th birthday party I have attended in the past month. This is because while she was pregnant and attending antenatal classes, Mrs C made friends with a shed-load of other women.

The problem is that all these women gave birth around February and March – so at this time of year we have to attend a stream of never-ending parties.

As a result my past five weekends – and three more to come – have been spent going to different dos.

It’s an incredibly depressing state of affairs, but, shamefully, I meekly follow Mrs C’s orders and go along in the faint hope that perhaps one day, in about 18 years, there’ll be no more parties and I can once again, possibly, find happiness and fulfilment.

Anyway, back to the start.

The party I attended on Saturday was at a soft play centre, so I spent two long hours crawling around a variety of inflatables with my child, watched as we cut the cake for whoever’s birthday it was then said our goodbyes and offered fake platitudes and went outside to the car … only to find I had no keys.

I checked every pocket. We checked the bag in which Mrs C keeps the nappies and all the things we carry with us to keep the children quiet – crisps, cuddly toys, tranquilliser darts. But the keys were not there.

‘I just don’t understand this,’ I said, perplexed. I got on my stomach and peered under the car in case I’d earlier dropped them. They weren’t there. ‘Have you got them?’ I said accusingly in Mrs C’s direction.

‘No I haven’t,’ she responded and naturally we began having a row. ‘Maybe they dropped out of your pocket while you were on the soft play,’ said Mrs C.

This was a distinct possibility, for I reckon I’ve lost about £50 at various soft play centres over the past year or two.

I’ve learned to my cost – quite literally – that coins and notes slip out of your pockets remarkably easily when you’re whizzing down a slide.

The staff in these places must make a fortune when they tidy up, though in fairness given they spend their days in an enclosed area overflowing with hyperactive screaming children they deserve every penny they get.

I went back inside. There were three young girls cleaning up.

I felt for them. There were bits of pizza and crisps and chicken nuggets and orange juice strewn all over the place. The girls, each of them a hoover in hand, looked shattered.

I told them, in embarrassed fashion, I thought I’d lost my car keys somewhere.

The four of us spent the next 20 minutes scouring the area with no luck.

After profusely apologising to the kindly girl who’d removed every single ball from the ball pool, I went outside to tell Mrs C the bad news.

She was standing in the drizzle with two crying children, next to a car she couldn’t get into.

She’s been in better spirits.

As we stood wondering what to do, I happened to glance at my three-year-old daughter and noticed a slight bulge in her coat pocket.

‘What’s in your pocket Mary?’ I asked.

She pulled my keys out and replied, ‘your keys daddy’.

‘Why did you put them there,’ I enquired, voice quivering slightly, attempting to stay calm.

‘To keep them safe,’ she answered matter-of-factly.

I didn’t know whether to swing for her or kiss her.

Kids. Who’d have ‘em?