I was going stir crazy at work, and with a week’s holiday I was about to lose, I decided I had to get away. My girlfriend, Jules, couldn’t make it - some lame work excuse - so I found a cheap flight to Florida on the internet.

“I’ll find plenty to do on my own,” I said huffily. “Nice and active, outside in the sunshine.” I was annoyed that Jules wouldn’t take the week off and come along, but I was also sad that she wasn’t going to be with me. She was serious about her job, though, so I understood.

It was about 11pm UK time when I landed, but I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. When she answered the phone, I couldn’t hear her because of the sounds of the party in the background.

So this was what she meant about being dedicated to her job. Fine. I sped out of the airport in a fit of pique and carried on speeding until I crossed the Marion County line - and a big, blue and white state trooper’s car came up behind me and started flashing its lights. Just perfect.

The state trooper was about 5ft 10in, had long, brown hair and was a woman. There’s something about a woman in a tight-fitting uniform and aviator shades. And there’s something about a woman in uniform carrying a loaded gun.

When she heard my British accent, she told me that if I didn’t agree to go for a drink with her that night, she’d ticket me. Well, one drink with Eileen turned into several, and for six days I barely saw the sunshine.

But I was certainly active. As the week had progressed, our lovemaking had become more and more adventurous until, on the last day, Eileen came back from work with some heavy-duty rope and showed me what they’d learnt in state-trooper class about tying up suspects.

I woke up exhausted, with flaming-red rope burns on my palms. And I was so exhausted, I slept all the way back on the plane. I woke up just as we were coming into land and racked my brains for an excuse that would cover rope burns and no suntan.

Jules was waiting for me at our flat. She was so sorry that she hadn’t been able to speak on the phone, but she had just won a big new account at work and all the bosses had taken her out to celebrate. She’d been trying to call me all week and she really loved me and missed me. In fact, since my phone had been switched off, she’d bought a guidebook and started calling motels and... Oh, what had I done to my hands? She led me into the bathroom to find something to put on them.

Time for my excuse. Yes, they were rope burns, from holding onto the raft: I had been whitewater rafting, you see, on the wild Ocklawaha River. Jules took a long look at me. “Oh, these are quite raw, aren’t they?” she said. “And you got these whitewater rafting?

“Yes,” I replied. “In Florida?” she queried. “Oh yes.”

Jules grasped my tender hands a little tighter than before and dabbed away with the TCP - only for the bottle to slip somehow from her fingers, pouring half a pint of antiseptic over my wounds. As I bellowed with pain, Jules wandered into the bedroom, returned with a guidebook (aimed at my head) and went off to her mother’s. A few days later, I read the book’s entry on the “slow-moving, placid Ocklawaha River”, and understood my fate.

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