Once there was a conference on indirect taxes, specifically the effect of Value Added Tax on arable farmers in the European Union. As an accountant, you'll understand that I was keen to go or, to put it another way, I fancied a weekend in the five star hotel in Majorca where it was being held.

So I book up, fly out and get bussed to the hotel. It is all very nice. This is late afternoon, maybe 5/6 o'clock. I can't help noticing that there is another conference being held there simultaneously, something to do with the cosmetics industry. And as a result there were a large number of outstandingly attractive ladies floating around from all over, judging by the overheard conversations. Americans, Brits, Irish, Germans, French, Scandis, Italians and lot more that I could not identify. Believe me when I say that this lot made the ludicrous Miss World contest look like the cast list for a horror movie with no make-up required.

I go to my room and change into something non-accountant like. At the time, some years ago now, accountants had this image of being dull and boring types. Totally different now of course.

You see my experience with ladies until then had been limited, I felt, by my profession. Guys, you know that time when you are trying to score at a party? When, to keep the conversation going, you ask her the scintillating conversation gambit of what she does for a living? And she tells you she operates a jackhammer on a building site? And the response: "So what do you do then?" Well in my case I suffer agonies at that point but in the interest of total candour I had, until then anyway, been totally honest. "I'm an accountant" I blurt out. Then I wait for the inevitable.

Her eyes glaze over, her face in a few seconds changes from a pleasant smile which led me to believe I had my foot in the door, to one reserved solely for something into which she might have stepped. Having revealed my innermost secret, I immediately become the party leper and slink away, feeling the look of disgust in her eyes burning two holes in my back. If I'm lucky there might be another man there who is in the same situation as me and we will commiserate together. If not, I'll quietly say goodbye to the host and return home, another evening ruined by my profession, to partake of that solitary yet somehow infinitely sad pleasure, well known to accountants.

I return to reading my weekly copy of "Taxes" magazine, pondering on the remarkable irony, under the circumstances, that this is almost an anagram of "sex act", were it not for the missing "c". Life does indeed play cruel tricks.

Those non-accountant professional types out there, the doctors, lawyers, teachers, surveyors, actuaries and so on cannot understand the depths of despair arising amongst us accountants. Women are known to throw themselves at your feet upon discovering such professions in potential partners. Even guys with manual trades have it better. Professional women are rumoured to like a bit of rough. You know the kind of thing: "What? You're a briiiiiiiickie! I'm a QC. Let's have oral sex here and now."

Not so with us accountants. You may argue that the stupendous sums we make from our clients, and then even more again by being ultra shrewd cool investors with our money compensates us for this inadequacy. Do you really think that all the money we make can reward us for our genetic inability to score at parties? Dead right it does!

Anyway back to Majorca and I'm in my hotel room. There are I am surrounded by this ocean of beauty at the conference and I am determined that this time I will not foul up. I am going to pretend that I am something else, anything but an accountant. My addiction to total honesty would take a back seat for a while.

Something glamorous, some sort of international type of occupation with perhaps a hint of danger about it. I hit on it. I am going to be an arms dealer. Much of what I do would be secretive so that explains why I will not have to go into too much detail about it. But just enough to arouse interest I hope. I unpack and search out something cool. I had lots of cool clothes which I'd acquired with the idea of looking anything but an accountant. But in the past people had often seen through me even before I'd opened my mouth. Possibly something to do with the fact that my T-shirts had Accountant painted across them in large day-glo letters.

I shower then I pull out the brown leather jacket. The expensive one with the designer label clearly visible. (Yes I know, tell me about it, I used to think this was cool. Bear in mind it's some years ago) A plain white short sleeved shirt, very light brown trousers and brown shoes. I look in the mirror and decide I definitely look the business. I practice the facial expressions I believe that an arms dealer might make. The coolness, the total unperturbability, the knowing, sophisticated, can't-shock-me, seen-it-all look. I carefully dab on the Old Spice.

I'm ready.

I go down, step out of the lift, walk to the bar. This is it, the entrance is critical. I try hard not to walk like an accountant. I take a leaf out of the American method actors book by forcing myself to believe that I really am an international arms dealer. By doing this my gait naturally becomes that of this person. I go to the bar, order a tequila slammer, pay up. Raise the salted glass to my lips and slowly, deliberately, turn round to look at the large room. Affecting an air of studied boredom I scan the tables clearly occupied primarily by cosmetics delegates. All the accountants have obviously gone to bed, it is about 7.30 after all.

The scene that greets me is quite breathtaking really. I don't know where to start. But I look for a lady on her own. There are several. Spoilt for choice. One appeals to me more than the others, don't know why really. Maybe it's the flashing neon sign over her head that states she is bored to tears at the conference and would like to meet a tough, cool, handsome, exciting man with just a touch of danger about him. But she is a real beauty.

That counts me out I think. Hang on, that's accountant mode, stop it! I become the arms dealer again and strutting my arms dealer walk, I saunter over to her table and ask if she minds if I could join her. I pray that she won't know the difference between an UZI and a lipstick.

She looks at me with a dazzling smile. I return the expression. "Please do" she says. I can't place the accent. Could be Hungarian. She has that air of mystery, unrestrained passion and excitement that ladies from that country are reputed to possess. "Where are you from?" I ask her. "Wolverhampton" comes the response. Well, she looks Hungarian anyway. I sit down, place my tequila on the table in front of me and look into the dark, inviting, bottomless pools that are her eyes. I feel already that I am drowning in them.

We chat about nothing much for a few moments and she asks me first. "What is that you do?" I'm ready for her, I think "this is it, cock this up and you're finished, you won't have the cojones to try it again." The adrenaline rises and here goes, "Well unfortunately I can't say too much about it, you'll understand when you hear, but I travel a lot round the world, arranging deals in certain weapons."

Her eyes light up, I can hardly believe that it's working. After all she is not going to meet an arms dealer every day I can tell you. Not in Wolverhampton anyway.

So naturally I ask her the same question.

She says "I'm an accountant and I'm here for the conference on indirect taxes as they affect arable farmers in the European Union."

My heart sinks, I start to go hot and cold in panic. No, no, this can't be happening. Just managing to contain myself, I give her a look expressly reserved for something into which I might have stepped, make my excuse and leave.

And the conference? Well I am now an expert on the indirect taxation of arable farmers in the EU. I must get some farming clients.