It was an amazing coincidence to see Clive Anderson twice in one day. I’d spotted him at the London BBC Radio 4 studio in the morning, and now he was here in Edinburgh checking into reception. I hesitated over approaching him, and consequently missed my chance to renew our friendship from our three nights on the Isle of Lewis in summer 2004. The next time I saw him he was with a crowd of his British comedy cronies. Dawn French’s screeches of laughter were enough to dissuade me from pursuing Clive any further.

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I’d never driven an automatic car before and now I knew the reason why. It was impossible to tell which of the six settings was the one to choose, the visibility was terrible, and there was hardly any space in what was essentially a blue cardboard box built around a tiny motor. Driving along the motorway to the airport was a terrifying experience. My parents told me that my sister was forced to give up driving due to her medication. I was giving up driving simply because it was just far too difficult.