Barnaby's Grand Prix of Gravity

Barnaby 'Two Left Feet' Butterfield considered himself a connoisseur of catastrophic co-ordination. His life was less a graceful waltz and more a high-speed collision with inanimate objects, often followed by an awkward apology to the floor. His latest masterpiece of physical ineptitude was set to unfold during his first date with the ethereal, effortlessly elegant Elara, at a restaurant so fancy, even the napkins had tiny bow ties.

"Allow me," Barnaby boomed, attempting to pull out Elara's chair with a flourish usually reserved for matadors. Instead, his foot caught on a rogue floorboard, sending him into a graceful (if you define graceful as "a flailing human missile") pirouette directly into a passing waiter. A delicate tower of mini quiches performed an aerial ballet before landing with tragic splats on a nearby senator's cashmere suit.

"Oh, good heavens!" Barnaby gasped, scrambling upright. In his haste to right the wrongs, his elbow performed an unexpected coup de grâce on a crystal water pitcher. A deluge of ice water cascaded, not onto the senator (luckily, he'd ducked), but onto a small, yappy dog nestled in a handbag beneath the next table. The ensuing canine protest was deafening.

"I am so incredibly sorry," Barnaby stammered, his face a vibrant shade of beet. He gestured wildly, trying to convey genuine remorse, but his hand found purchase not on Elara's reassuring arm, but on a rather large, ceramic potted fern. The fern, clearly not built for such intimacy, tipped over with a theatrical thud, its contents cascading directly onto Barnaby's head. He stood there, a human topiary, damp earth clinging to his hair, a single, perfectly formed quiche nestled precariously on his left ear. Elara, to her credit, was now openly weeping with laughter.