Jonny McCambridge: Going abroad - trying desperately to fit in as a gentleman of Verona

When I am away, I attempt to adapt to the local customs and ways, rather than to complain that the hot breakfast buffet at the hotel does not serve soda and fadge.

It is the first morning of this year's holiday and I am in beautiful Verona. The city is thronged with tourists, the majority of whom seem to be following tour guides holding up umbrellas and walking in the direction of Julia's balcony.

I, however, walk in a different direction. With my new linen shirt, perfectly ironed white shorts and round sunglasses, I consider that I could more or less pass off as a local as I stroll through the narrow streets of the old town.

There are, of course, limitations to the illusion. The fact that I am the palest person in the Venetian area is the obvious one. This is exacerbated by the fact that I need to wear so much factor 50 suncream to protect myself from the elements that I resemble a greased pig.

My wife also insists that I wear head protection and the floppy bucket hat I packed does not quite capture the desired image of a gentleman of Verona.

Furthermore, despite countless visits, my attempts to master the Italian language remain disappointingly frustrated. No matter; I have always found that repeated use of the phrases 'grazie mille', 'va benne' and 'prego', while accompanied by the animated waving of arms and rolling of eyes, does the job of enabling me to pass off as a local.

I set off with my family for a mid-morning walk feeling fresh and in the highest of spirits, nodding amiably at many of the traders as we dander among the shops selling fashionable Italian clothes and bags. It is all going too well and cannot last.

The sun is high in the sky and it is difficult to describe quite how hot and sticky the conditions are. My linen shirt has quickly become saturated with sweat and I am soon wearing it as an uncomfortable layer of extra skin.

My shorts seem to have contracted in the heat and I have to tug at them repeatedly in the most awkward and embarrassing fashion.

The sweat is also running down my face and it mixes with the generous application of sun lotion to create a thin, milky liquid which runs into my eyes.

The locals watch on bemusedly as I have to remove my sunglasses and use my floppy hat as a makeshift towel.

After slightly more than an hour of this torture, I need a break. I tell my family that we will seek respite in the piazza, ideally out of the glare of the sun.

But the wily Veronians are ahead of me. All of the benches which are in the shade are already occupied by elegant Italians who fan themselves or chat leisurely, unbothered by the elements.

The only bench which is vacant is a metal one in the full glare of the sun. I hesitate for a few moments, but I desperately need to sit down, so I claim the spot. The metal is warm beneath my backside as I take long gulps from my water bottle.

I stay on the seat for a few minutes, fanning myself with my hat. Soon, however, I notice a bench in the shade has become free and I eagerly point my family in that direction.

I go to move, but I cannot. I try again, with the same result. I am not immediately sure why. It takes a few moments to narrow the problem down to the calf of my left leg.

My wife is gathering our things and urges me forward. I have to make an embarrassing admission, which, even after our long years of marriage, is a novel one.

"Honey, I'm stuck to the seat.”

It is unfortunately so. The metal bench is roasting hot in the sun. I am drenched with sweat. In the area where my skin meets the seat, they have become as one.

I ponder this unusual situation. I have become what is perhaps the world's first man-bench which could potentially be marketed as a new tourist attraction in Verona.

I come to my senses and curse my foolishness. I know the longer I leave this situation, the worse it will become. I steel myself and then make a quick, violent effort to free my leg.

I am upright, but several layers of my skin have been left behind as a permanent reminder.

Several Italians look up with curiosity as I run around the piazza yelling "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Owwwww!”

I find my new spot in the shade and, despite the sting in my leg, I soon begin to feel better. I drink more water and its restorative powers enable me to feel strong enough to resume my adventure.

It is my son who suggests that we go for ice cream and I think it is a fine idea. What could be better than exploring the streets while sampling the local gelato?

We find an ice cream shop and buy towering cones. I pick lemon-flavoured gelato because it seems like a very Italian thing to do. I am returned to my previous state of good humour as I stroll with the cone in one hand and my hat in another.

An Italian man passes me, tanned and with dark hair. We make eye contact and nod an amiable greeting. I find myself thinking that although we are from different countries and speak different languages, we are both cosmopolitan men of the world and not really that different.

I lick at my gelato. The quickly-melting ice cream falls off the cone and lands in my bucket hat.

I notice the Italian man dissolving into a fit of laughter as I attempt to grab the freezing lump of confectionary and reattach it to the cone.