Tied up in Lake Como

Sun dappled the pretty restaurant terrace. Just below us Lake Como shimmered in majestic tranquillity. I drained my coffee and told myself that life was unlikely to get any better than this. I was right: it was about to get much, much worse.

"Get up," said my wife when the time came to leave. "I can't!" I said. "How much wine have you had?" she asked. But it wasn't the drink that had immobilised me; it was the belt loop of my

shorts which had somehow hooked itself around the ornate metal chair I was sitting on. I struggled to liberate the garment but to no avail - it was like it had been knotted by a veteran cub scout.

My wife walked off in shame and disgust, closely followed by the rest of our party. Only my older brother remained, laughing loud enough to alert the rest of the restaurant to my plight. "Sod this," I thought. "I'm going and I'm taking the chair with me." I rose to my feet like Godzilla