I killed two chairs at Christmas. Not intentionally and not the leaders of my two least favourite committees. Both were made of wood.

The first murder occurred in a playground in our neighbourhood where, with friends from our street, we were enjoying a happy Christmas afternoon catch-up.

The chair was a wooden folder, in its senior years, and gave up when I went to sit on it. Fortunately, my landing strip was designed for falling children and with help I tottered to my feet, none the worse for wear save for the sad loss of a slice of delicious pavlova I had been cradling at the time of the crash.

The second chair murder occurred in the sitting room of a holiday rental in January by the sea. I attempted to stand up after watching too much wonderful tennis and the chair gave way, the rear legs splaying with a puff of bamboo dry rot, tipping me on to the floor and landing on the point of my right shoulder.