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An individual freeing himself from wrongful incarceration is a noble enterprise - the stuff, indeed, that edge-of-seat plots are woven from. So it's no wonder so many gems in the fictional canon chart an escapee's twisting fortunes. Who does not cheer from the narrative's touchline when Henri Charriere, aka Papillon, flees through the jungles of French Guiana for four days, with only chewed coca leaves as sustenance?

Who does not favour the fugitive when that fugitive is Victor Hugo's most famous protagonist: Jean Valjean who, having hurled himself into the sea after rescuing a sailor caught in his prison hulk's rigging,Chopard Replica exploits his presumed death to escape and live a life of virtue - thus fulfilling a promise made to the kindly clergyman who took him in and fed him years previously? What kind of stone-hearted monster, witnessing the cat-and-mouse tussle between Dr Richard Kimble and Police Lieutenant Philip Gerard in cult 60s series The Fugitive, does not root for the mouse: an embattled physician wrongly convicted for the murder of his wife?

My own story of capture and attempted escape, I like to think, will stand amongst these gripping tales of heroism in the face of having a basic human/ursine right - freedom - cruelly purloined. The torrid tale begins, ironically enough, in the salubrious halls of Messe Basel during Baselworld 2018, where I was operating as a brand ambassador (the word 'mascot', I feel, is better suited to Baxter the Arizona Diamondbacks Bobcat or Chirpy the Tottenham Hotspur Cockerel).

As another day greeting visitors at the Chopard Replica booth came to a close, I had a spring in my step: for that evening I was to be guest of honour at the Swiss brand's evening soiree - a congenial affair at which, by 10pm on this occasion, my limbs ached from my dance-floor exuberance,rotonde de cartier replica while a chaotically choreographed phosphene scene played out before me every time I shut my eyes, thanks to the hundreds of camera flashes that had zapped into my Champagne-dilated pupils all evening.

The latter stages of the night, I confess, are hazy: one rarely gets beyond the last third-measure of fizz at these events before a waiter promptly refills one's glass, and some of the more boisterous attendees were mixing premium vodka with those ghastly energy drinks (imagine how toxic levels of taurine smell to a creature with 10 times the sense of smell of a human). We were well into the early hours when a well-oiled, and I thought well-meaning, trio of revellers noticed my mudded demeanour and, between nuggets of innocuous banter, ushered me towards the exit.