I was the reluctant leader of a small running club expedition to Glencoe. Unqualified for the role, I was making a complete mess of it. First, we arrived far too late in the afternoon to tackle any of the interesting routes. Then, when checking to see which climb would be achievable in the time available, I discovered that the brand new Ordnance Survey map that I’d just received from Amazon was useless. It presented a full-scale atlas of the world on one side and a chart of British myths and legends on the other. “I’ll put it away for our niece F when she’s a bit older”, I remarked to TPR.

While the others hung around waiting for me to make a decision on where we were heading, their conversation deteriorated to discussions of the perennial quest for a suitable boyfriend in Edinburgh. The latest tales of woe centred on the theme of being stood up. As the anecdotes piled up they became more and more outrageous. The ultimate was a supposedly true tale where the man had chosen to die quietly rather than meet his date.

Meanwhile I realised that I’d forgotten something else for our day out: my walking boots. Fortunately I knew that I had my trainers somewhere, but I was somewhat embarrassed to get them out. I’d laced a music chip into the left shoe and was pretty certain that a Take That track was playing. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to share my dodgy musical tastes with everyone.