This is a curious tale. In 1989 I met a very beautiful Italian female banker, working at the London headquarters of a British bank, whose main business was in China and South East Asia. I introduced her to minerals and many other projects I was working on. She ordered aromatherapy essences from my supplier, and then more, and at length she realised that she needed somewhere to store them. She had a look at the various aromatherapy boxes on offer within this specialised market, and said she liked none of them. They were all drab and without interest, style or quality, she surmised.

One day she came to me and asked if I would design an aromatherapy box for her. Just for her! Something of quality that would last. So I took it on, bearing in mind that her collection of essential oils was increasing. We agreed that the box needed to hold around 84 small essential oil bottles, with room for a base oil and mixing bowl.

The most complex part was designing the hinge guiding mechanism to lift the top tray out as the lid was opened. Once I had proved its workability with a dummy model then I cut the brass mechanism.

Having completed the whole work I sent her a proforma invoice. I never heard from her again. I realised in retrospect that she thought that I would make her this beautiful aromatherapy case for the sake of love of doing it and nothing else. The price was not what the average aromatherapist could afford. It was a luxury item. Luxury items take longer to make than run-of-the-mill manufactured goods.

An amusing anecdote to this little story: Soon after meeting her I moved residence from a flat to a bungalow. I informed her of the move prior to the event. She turned up one day unannounced at the bungalow, to inspect my new residence, which was a shambles. Two weeks later she announced to me that she had purchased a new BMW. She took me out in it for a spin down to the west country, Stone Henge and places.

We were driving along the Chiswick Flyover, in the fast lane, about three metres behind the car in front at over 60 miles per hour. My feet were outstretched sinking into the floor, with my back pressed firmly against the seat in tension. I expressed to her, as calmly as I could do to muster the energy, that perhaps we are too close to the other car. She looked at me with her broad beautiful smile and sparkling eyes, and said: "This car has the newest braking system."

At the end of the journey I was so grateful to place my feet on terra firma. It was the opposite of a seaman having spent months at sea, then to walk on dry land again. I never went in the car with her again. Oddly, she only ever used the car once in about every six weeks, and had a car cleaning service come to her and wash and polish it every week.

She was a high earner and bought the car to impress me. But I refused to play ball.