SOMETIMES character defects don’t matter too much unless they work in combination.

For example, it’s fine in isolation to have no discernible talent, or a burning desire to simply be famous.

Put them together, though, and you get 90 per cent of the X Factor hopefuls. At best.

I am famous, among family and friends, for having absolutely no sense of direction.

Honestly, I can go dog-walking in an empty field, turn left, right, and then be hopelessly lost and completely reliant on the dog to lead me home. Though obviously, he has an advantage. I’m sure if I urinated every twenty yards I’d find my way back too.

Anyway, this defect (the direction thing, not the urinating) is pretty much my problem and can be overcome with a decent map, occasional use of satnav, or trailing a big ball of thread behind me.

What makes it a wider issue is that, apparently, I have one of those faces.

Yes, for some reason, the eyes of the lost, scattered and bewildered of this parish light upon me and cry as one: “He looks like he knows where things are!”

Yes, chances are, if you’re lost in my vicinity, I’m the chap you’ll turn to for help. You poor saps.

Now, this shouldn’t be a problem. I should simply say: “No, no, you’ve got the wrong guy. I have no idea how to get to (for example) Bournemouth Square. Why not ask someone more capable?”

Except here’s where character defect number two comes into play. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, I convince myself that yes, actually I do know how to get where you’re going.

Which is why, when a charming couple stopped me at the top of Richmond Hill last week to ask how to reach Holdenhurst Road, I was only too happy to help.

I gave them concise, clear, and easy-to-follow guidance, and left them with a reassuring smile.

It was approximately ten minutes later that I realised I had, in fact, given them perfect directions to get to Westover Road.

If you’re reading this, I’m deeply sorry. I meant well.

And at least you didn’t have to walk quite as far as my friends when we went back to my old univeristy haunt of Leicester for a nostalgic night out.

We spent a good hour trudging the streets looking for a pub I was convinced I remembered the route to, before giving it up as a bad job.

Personally, I’m convinced they moved it. Or changed the name.

When my future wife moved in to the Chappell abode, I gave the removal van directions. Unfortunately, there were two very similarly-named roads in the vicinity, and I mixed them up.

Yes, you read it right: I got the directions wrong to my own home.

So seriously, I’m begging you. Look at the picture at the top of this page. Cut it out and stick it in your wallet if you must. And under no circumstances ask this man for directions.

And if he approaches you with a helpful look, run. Just run.

Chances are, he’ll even point you in the right direction.