So, a couple of weeks back, at the time when we had about three days of hot sunshine - better known as our summer - I had gone off for a couple of days to Brid.

Whilst I was there, I decided that since the weather was glorious, I would take myself off and venture up into the ‘old town’.

I love the old town of Brid, it has so much character and of course some quaint little pubs.

When I got there, to my delight there was an 1940s-themed day. Oh, how lovely, I thought and to be honest I got rather giddy.

I thought I’d nip in the Nut and Nettle and sit in the beer garden at the back, it’s the sort of beer garden that I like. Trees, flowers, seating and beer.

After obtaining my beverage I proceeded to the outside only to find that because it was very busy there was only a bench and table left. No problem, I thought, and lifted my leg over and plonked myself down.

It dawned on me that I had never really noticed just how low the benches were, as I’d never sat on them before. But hey ho, I was sat down, but then I began to think as I sipped my drink…

Just how the hell am I supposed to get off the bench? Having no-one with me, the problem was solely mine. Okay, there were two solutions, as far as I could see.

I could either gently just slowly fall backwards, until I touched the ground, then I could roll off the bench and crawl along the ground towards the next bench - which was slightly higher - and lever myself up on to my knees and then hopefully stand up.

Or, I could just continue sitting there hoping that people would sense that I had a situation, feel sorry for me and keep an endless supply of alcohol coming in the hope that I would become so intoxicated that I really wouldn’t care how I got off the bloody bench.

Where was that Pete when I needed him?

I thought I’d play it safe next time I fancied a drink, so I stayed at home. Book perched outside on the table, I ventured indoors to find a bottle of beer - I was feeling quite chuffed with myself.

Who needs anyone to help me, I thought, as I found the bottle opener. I proceeded to open the bottle.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” I shouted at the bottle opener. What has happened to good, old-fashioned bottle openers?

I sat down staring in bewilderment at this object in my hand. This fang-dangle thing was made up of little gadget things that I had absolutely no idea were for.

I opened it up, I turned it this way and that. There was no way I could possibly open the bottle.

I’d once seen where a bloke opened a bottle with his teeth. No! My teeth had been put through enough trauma when I’d munched my way through a full bag of pork scratchings.

There was nothing for it. I would have to phone Pete and ask him just how the hell do I open a bottle of beer, but then he’d know I was drinking his beer.

I pride myself on being an independent woman. I change lightbulbs and lightshade things. I can use a strimmer, and not a cordless one, oh no one of those that really annoys you and makes you want to swear and throw it up the garden.

I am a woman of means. I will not be defeated. I even turned it upside down. Thankfully it didn’t open then or beer would have been everywhere.

Then, as if the universe had heard my pathetic cries for help, the lid flipped off. I took my beer outside only to find that the clouds had built up and yes, summer was over.

Oh well, never mind.