A FEW months ago, I took a tilt at the Blair government's declared intention to introduce identity cards.

Some of you might remember that I said the whole idea was flawed, not least because the British tend to be complete incompetents when it comes to bureaucracy.

So, logically, the misery of having to fork out £70 - in order to prove who you knew you were - would undoubtedly be compounded by foul-ups with the paperwork. It was just a question of time.

ID isn't here just yet, thank God. Nevertheless, there's still plenty of activity in the cock-up department at Bungledom Incorporated.

Anyway, savour this, and tell me whether some sort of award needs to be made.

I've disguised the names of institutions where necessary...

Four days before we take our youngest daughter to university, I receive a call at work from my wife to say the housing department has fouled up with the accommodation arrangements.

Despite filling in an enormous form months before, they'd placed Alice in a mixed-sex flat - which was most certainly not what she'd wanted.

Cue phone call to the university, to be met by the usual first line of resistance, the switchboard. I force my way through this and ask to be put through to the principal.

The deputy must suffice, I am told, but he's out.

So I leave a polite message on his answerphone, with just a sprinkling of unpleasantness to oil the creaking wheels of academia. Later, a charming woman calls to assure me that the accommodation has been sorted and she's very sorry there was a misunderstanding. An offensive manner can sometimes work wonders.

All right, no problem. But now we have to ring the accommodation company that runs the student flats. For, despite repeated calls, we've been sent no documentation about how to find the building this coming Sunday - which is the day the Phillpotts will be descending en masse.

One final call and we're told by a female executive that the documents should have been put in the post but, sorry, actually they haven't.

Can't you just look on the internet?

Sunday arrives and my wife and I set off to take Alice to start her new life. Following in convoy is elder sister and boyfriend riding shotgun.

When we arrive at our destination, it is a scene of utter chaos. Three hundred students, plus parents, arrive in an equal number of assorted vehicles, ranging from 4X4s to Ford Fiestas.

There's no parking whatsoever, the road has double yellow lines that reach into the far distance, and vehicles zoom past continuously. Two sweating lads, who appear barely out of their teens, are attempting to direct traffic.

Yes, but what about the double yellows, we ask? No worries. It's all been squared with the council, they say. Cue for motorised fleets to deposit themselves on double yellows, on the pavements and even on the newly-mown lawns in front of the building.

But this is just the start. Once into the courtyard of the flats complex, we join several hundred parents and their charges. There's no indication where anything is, no signs or explanation about where to go.

More than 10 minutes elapse before we're informed that the woman with the clipboard and biro has been charged with taking registrations.

Once names have been taken, it's then a waiting game, for there are only three desks to cope with nearly a thousand people.

There's nothing to do but wait in the drizzly rain. Barely audible young people, who appear only marginally older than the students, whisper a name here, croak a name there.

I challenge an adult in a T-shirt who attempts a feeble argument about staffing levels then gives up. Even he can't be bothered to defend this shambles.

After two hours, Alice is settled in, and we drive away. Then I notice two parking wardens slapping tickets on windscreens.

We escape their clutches - but, an hour later we receive a call from our eldest daughter, who says she's been issued with a ticket.

But there's worse to come - Alice has been refused admission to the university by a jobsworth because four post-dated cheques to the value of nearly £1,000 can't be found.

That's £1,000 of OUR money. What's more, Alice will be fined £25 if she doesn't write a cheque for this amount. What?

The tears start to flow, but we're on the mobile to the woman in charge of admissions and tell her that we sent the cheques in June. She softens her attitude and agrees to allow Alice to join the world of learning.

The next day, I ring the university to stress that the cheques must be somewhere - and, sure enough, later that day we're informed that the university had LOST the cheques but had now found them.

Where, I wonder. Stuffed down a sofa?

The next day I ring the local council where a friendly chap from parking and transport tells me that, if our eldest daughter appeals against the fine - and I write a back-up letter - there's no reason why the authorities shouldn't look favourably on the matter.

I ask if the university or housing company had, at any stage, requested the usual parking restrictions to be waived. No, they hadn't, he says.

That night, I dictate a letter over the phone to my eldest daughter, who puts it in the post the next day.

On the Wednesday, we drop in to see Alice and, while we're in the flat, she receives what transpires to be a call from someone connected with the university.

She tells Alice that her sister's fine will be paid. But this is all news for her - we'd deliberately not told her about her sister's parking ticket, not wishing to add to her worries.

The woman also asks her for our home telephone number in Worcester. However, no one calls.

Thursday morning dawns and we're back in Worcester. I spend the best part of the day writing various letters, including one to the council, requesting that the appeal against the parking fine is successful.

Oh yes, I almost forgot. Not only were these few days taken as holiday but, because of all the nonsense on the Sunday, we've missed a social engagement scheduled for later that day.

The rest of the time has been spent writing letters and making phone calls.

I think you'll agree that this is a sorry tale.

And it's bad enough that the Government has reneged on all its promises to higher education. But it's the institutionalised hopelessness of the attendant bureaucracy that really rubs salt into the wounds.

Postscript: The council disallowed the appeal, but said we could appeal against the refusal of the appeal(!).

The university admitted that, although they requested parking restrictions to be waived, somewhere down the line the message never got through to the appropriate council department. They promised to pay our daughter's fine upon proof of payment.

At last - an end to it all. I think.