It all started when my daughter, who became somewhat concerned as to my rather precarious balancing act as I sat at my computer.

To her horror I was sitting on top of two very large red velvet cushions topped off with another cushion in a bilious shade of green, all balanced on the seat of a chair which had seen better days.

There was no visible support for my arms and wrists and Repetitive Strain Injury (RSI) was lurking in the wings, according to my daughter and it would be all my fault because I wouldn't go to the trouble of buying a proper computer chair.

I got as far as looking at catalogues which waxed lyrical about the merits of this chair and that (support for your back, support for your arms, more support for any spare portion of your anatomy that might be hanging over the edge of the chair) but there seemed to be one snag - they were all self-assembly models.

No one would sell me a ready-to-sit-on chair. I'm sure there are some in posh office equipment shops, at a price, but I simply could not see myself tackling the apparently innumerable nuts, washers, arm rests, foot rests, swivelling seats which leered at me from the catalogues.

"Can easily be assembled by anyone who can use a screwdriver" and sundry other challenging statements were the order of the day. So my balancing act went on until my daughter threatened me with dire action, like crashing my computer, unless I did something in pretty short order.

Then my Fairy Godmother appeared. "Come and see my daughter's new computer chair" she said in all innocence and was amazed when I fell, weeping, on her bosom as I told her about the threats to my computer if I didn't get a proper chair.

"Absolutely no problem" she said, scooping me up into my car. "No time like the present." So off we went to a well-known store and chose a chair which was nicely put together.

"Ah" said the salesman, "you can't have that one, it's for display only." Unmoved by my sobs he thrust a huge flat-pack at us, took the money and went off to serve the next customer.

"Never mind" said my friend, "my son will put it together for you." As her son is in his late teens I was not entirely convinced as to what his attitude would be to being volunteered in such a cavalier manner.

When we got it home there seemed to be enough pieces to rebuild the West Pier and have a few bits over but my guardian angel did not seem in the least fazed. He sat his mother down in a chair next to his centre of operations, loaded her up with a seemingly endless collection of see-through envelopes and went to work.

It was like watching a talented surgeon at work. His mother passed him various bits of Lego - sorry, chair - as he clicked his fingers if she was not quick enough off the mark with the fiddly little envelopes which held the screws etc. I sat in amazed adoration at this genius who, it seemed, could conjure furniture out of these unpromising bits and pieces.

Gradually, I saw my computer chair rise. The back was adjusted to suit my needs and the height was set at the optimum for my work. I flung my arms around him while singing praise for his brilliance. It seemed to have taken him a mere trice to put the thing together. Modest lad that he is, he just said, "It was nothing".

Now I am in front of my computer with proper support for all the bits that need supporting and there is a sporting chance my daughter and I may be on speaking terms once again. Watch this space.