The guests hurried to get off the coach that BM had chartered to transport everyone to his magnificent 40th birthday celebrations. All dolled up in a turquoise dress with short black sleeves and flashes on red across the bodice, and having managed to squeeze my flat feet into a pair of red three-buckled high heels (hurrah!) I was ready to party.

Unfortunately I was so eager to check out the other guests in the huge white marquee that I only realised that I had left my handbag with my keys, purse and mobile phone on the bus after the vehicle set off to its next job of the evening. I also lost TPR in the crush of party-goers. Nevertheless, I was determined to enjoy all the entertainment and headed into the vast tent first to watch the performance of male cappella duets. Afterwards I stood outside and chatted with Edinburgh University’s black-robed Professor of Case Music (genre unexplained) in the queue for another show.

After a while I was curious as to the location of TPR. Where was he, and why wasn’t he joining in the fun of the party?

I eventually discovered my husband semi-comatose in a filthy Chinese brothel. In the short time that we had been apart he (or someone else) had dyed his hair black and plucked his eye brows. He then rolled over in his makeshift bed to reveal a red-raw dragon tattoo etched across his back.

“Tell me that’s not permanent!” I screamed, the tears pouring down my face. “Whatever will your mother say?”

He grinned back stupidly.

“She’ll be praying to the souls of your maternal grandparents”, I guessed out loud. “And by the way, this is grounds for divorce. Don’t expect to keep the flat.”