The isolated guest house on the North Yorkshire moors was well-known for its strict graduate-only entry policy. I travelled there by car with Belle and a stranger. We couldn’t compete with his credentials as a UCL-based Jane Austen expert with a regular spot on BBC Radio 4’s Front row. He knew it, sneering with superiority, and (mistakenly) referring to our lowly admin roles. We both got the impression that he thought we were filing clerks of some description. We never found out what he made of the guest who was later forced to confess at a makeshift alter that she had never completed her degree.

The elderly couple who ran the guest house spent each morning baking. Guests were welcome to join in with the job of rolling out the pastry when the weather was poor. TPR and I gave this a go, but it was a tedious task. We’d rather listen to the fantastic Debbie Harry impersonator sing her way through the Blondie repertoire. However, we were aghast at the shockingly explicit lyrics. How did these get past us as teenagers? What instead did we mouth at YPF discos? We would also have liked to play Scrabble, but the non-graduate was in the middle of a game, possibly hoping to win and prove that she was worthy company for the rest of the highly-qualified guests.

When the weather eventually improved TPR and I set off across the moors by bike. I soon lost TPR, who sped into the distance ahead of me, apparently with no care for my safety. I travelled for miles on my own. When I eventually reached a sign that said “Stockton 4 miles” I realised that I had perhaps gone a bit too far. I reached for my mobile phone to track down TPR. Of course this was pointless: he never carries a mobile and – even if he did – there would be no signal here.