Mr FF had a nightmare day last week. He had to go to London for an important meeting which was scheduled for 7pm in central London and at 6pm, with an hour to kill, he thought he would pop into a bank and draw out some sterling('cos the Brits are so anxious not to join the Euro).
The cash machine was on the first floor and as he had his laptop bag and overnight case he thought he'd take the lift - bad move. He got stuck between floors and had to wait to be rescued by the fire brigade. They were unable to get the lift to a level for an easy exit and he had to hoist himself up through a gap they had made by using crowbars, ripping his beautiful Paul Smith suit in the process - yes he arrived just in time for the meeting but with trouser leg and its lining flapping nicely and 'in a bit of a state'.
There is a claim in with the bank for a new suit but, in the meantime, the branch manager just sent us (well him, but I've staked my claim) a hamper. Oh well, the diet* will have to start another year.
*thank goodness our French doctor thinks women look better when they come in a larger size. Whenever I mention the D (for diet) word to him he gives that dismissive Gallic shrug and tells me ne vous inquiétez pas
