We were taking lunch recently in a restaurant attached to that English agricultural rarity, a vineyard.

It was idyllic because, for starters (mussels for my wife Susan, pressed ham hock and piccalilli for me, actually!), it wasn't raining.

The fare was delicious, too, until, in the midst of her quaffing and eating, my wife gazed across the table, looked deep into my eyes and uttered those immortal words: "I'm going to be sick if you don't let me change seats."

Call me a romantic old fool but I know a damsel in distress when I hear one.

And this was about as big as a culinary distress signal gets.

So Operation SOS (Save Our Susan) swung into discreet action and, just seconds before the waitress arrived with the main courses, we did our best to confuse her by swapping our seating.

Now often I forego the chance of having any sort of view in a restaurant, knowing that my wife always, if given the chance, bags the chair with "the view", be that out across the vista of the restaurant itself or, as more usual, the lovely panoramic views you get from the windows in some dining establishments.

But this sudden plea for help had nothing to do with obtaining a better vantage point.

No, it was all to do with... buttons.

My wife has an irrational "thing" about them in the way lots of others do with spiders.

You could, if you felt so fiendishly-minded, drive her demented by wrapping up a box of loose buttons for Christmas or her birthday.

I haven't, of course, but occasionally this curious detestation of hers surfaces at strange times and unusual places, such as the delightful restaurant.

The cause of her consternation, agitation and rapidly approaching nausea was actually another female diner who, arriving after us at the adjoining table, was in full view of my wife.

I had not noticed but this lady's attire was covered in an abundance of buttons by way of decoration.

My wife, midway through her mussels, had been unable to take her panic-stricken eyes off them, and the outfit, unwittingly, was about to ruin our day out. Big time.

Once we'd changed seats, though, normal service was resumed and the panic subsided as the offending costume was removed from Mrs D's eyeline.

Now I know it's easy to laugh at this phobia of hers and I would, if I had none of my own.

For, in truth, I'm not squeaky clean on that score.

I cannot abide needles. That's things like blood tests at the doctor's or vaccinations. I loathe them and have to look away and hope the practice nurse doesn't spot they're dealing with a total wimp.

Once, to my eternal shame, I actually came over all faint and had to be allowed time to recover before I felt the sharp end of the National Health Service.

Bizarrely, I don't mind having an injection at the dentist. I've never worked out why I make a distinction between one hypodermic and another, though it may be something to do with the fact that the latter delivers an instant anaesthetic effect.

I also cannot abide dead matches. I don't smoke, or light fires overmuch, so this one doesn't get me very often but I confess to recoiling should I ever open a box of matches and find someone has used it as a receptacle for used ones. And don't even ask me to pick one up that's been dropped on the floor.

Quite where all this stuff and nonsense comes from is another matter.

Some shrink could probably unlock our psyche and tell us what tripped these phobias.The downside in our house, though, is that neither of us will ever consider sewing a button back on any garment. My wife won't touch the button, I won't pick up the needle. Has anyone got a light?