Several years later, and Maastricht is officially my home away from home. With the weather having turned to ice over the last few days, Willy and I decide to step out on the town in search of some dinner in order to drag ourselves out of that typical cold-weather depression. He suggests we go out to a nearby jazz cafe which ‘has a great atmosphere, you know, a great vibe, a lot of ambience - and a wood fire.’ Didn’t have to say any more than that to convince me.

Of course the minute we step out to dinner it starts bucketing down with rain, so after splashing through the freezing streets he bustles me hurriedly into what he thinks is the cafe he had in mind. Instead we look up to find a grim row of starched waiters and table upon table of posh, snooty patrons all alternately glaring and staring at us with shock as we drip all over the place like drowned rats and shake off our drenched coats. All my instincts tell me to turn and run into the nearest cheap pub, but Count Willy with his elite boarding school breeding stands tall and demands a table and a bottle of red, pronto.

After polishing that off we figure that as long as we’re there we might as well enjoy ourselves. So throwing caution into the wind, I order the wild duck and he the wild boar, even though the prices on the menu make me want to duck into the ladies and crawl out through the tiny window. Another bottle of wine later, and Wil calls the waiter over and complains about the shotgun pellets not removed from his wild boar, with all the dignity he can muster while I, still dripping and now utterly drunk, can barely stay upright in my chair for the helpless giggling.

Casting a disgusted glance in my direction, the waiter returns shortly with apologies from the chef and instructions for the manager that the ‘respectable young man in the blazer with the silly little girl will not be obliged to pay for an unsatisfactory meal.’ Would have been the perfect end to the night had I not been escorted straight home where I promptly threw up in the kitchen sink.