The vertigo suffered by the male lineage of the Willems clan is legendary. When we were kids and Dad changed a lightbulb, Mum and my sister would lay pillows on the floor and say Hail Marys. I, meanwhile, cowered in the bedroom and waited for the screech and muffled thump which would announce that Dad had succumbed to an attack of the headspins and fallen off the kitchen chair on which he had been standing.

I get dizzy looking out from my rear balcony - and I live on the second floor - yet I still agreed to the climb, not wishing to appear diminished in my beloved's eyes.

My hopes rose momentarily when I was told that you had to pass a breathalyser test before being allowed to climb. I have a less than perfect record with these devices but on this day, I scored zero-zero. My fiancée feigned surprise at this, asking how I'd managed to hold my breath while appearing to exhale.

We agreed that I should look up rather than down during the climb, a serious miscalculation. I looked up at the beginning of the main ascent and saw a flight of steel stairs disappearing into the clouds. Suddenly, I wanted very much to sit down, close my eyes and spend the rest of my life crouched on the bridge with my head wedged between my knees.

I spent the entire climb white-faced with terror, panic pumping through my veins and with my eyes locked on my fiancée's ankles as she climbed ahead of me.

   "How are you doing?" the guide beamed occasionally.
   "Just peachy," I croaked as I attempted to control the urge to up-chuck on the afternoon peak-hour traffic below.

What would motorists think if this happened, I wondered? That they had been targeted by some enormous bird, dive-bombed by the world's biggest pigeon?

The ordeal over and drenched in the chill sweat of fear, I dumped my climbing suit and we went back to our apartment where I duly concentrated on raising my blood alcohol level above zero-zero in the shortest time possible.

Attacks of stupidity can last for several days and it was while still thus affected that I hauled my bicycle out of storage, mind clouded with visions of taking up regular riding and becoming sleek and sylph-like. I pumped up the tyres, wiped off the dust that had accumulated during 18 months of neglect, and went pedalling.

I visited the supermarket on my return and within a few minutes became aware that I was attracting more than my usual quotient of snickers and giggles from my fellow shoppers.

When I got home and changed I discovered that while in storage, the black fabric covering of the bike seat had suffered a degree of decomposition. Mingling with the litres of sweat which had soaked my cargo shorts, it had formed a thick, black dye which had completely covered my rear. I had a coal-black bum and looked as if I had been sitting in a puddle of tar - or worse.