Guy Masterson’s voice boomed from the red-curtained television screen. Normally I would be keen to watch his performance, but this was a long-anticipated work event in Turkey and I had something else to deal with: the wandering hands of regular conference pest XYZ.

I should never have taken the seat next to this notorious groper. XYZ found it impossible to resist leering at my cleavage, and there was a high risk that before long that I’d be extracting his filthy mitts from my top. I could tolerate this no longer, so snapped my laptop lid shut, stood up, and marched out the room, leaving behind the rather baffled XYZ.

Outside the Turkish heat was overwhelming. I wandered across the lawn to the edge of the hotel grounds and looked out to sea. It would have been wonderful to take a dip, but AT told me the water temperature was at boiling point. Added to this, there was a dangerous twenty foot drop down to the shore. Swimming in the sea was definitely out. It was a pity that there wasn’t a hotel pool, but perhaps this was because this was a dedicated conference venue where delegates were meant to spend their time working rather than having fun?

It was still too dangerous to return to the lecture hall so instead I followed some little old ladies dressed as teenagers through the door of a blue-painted barn and up some wooden steps. At the far end of the attic I found TPR playing guitar karaoke with a bunch of friends, including my brother-in-law MF (who, incidentally, happened to be the star of the show). In this company I could relax at last: XYZ would never find me here.