TPR ran ahead of me, clearly appalled at my lack of athleticism. If that was how he felt, I would just give up. I stopped for a while and read the discarded Argos catalogue that I picked out of the gutter. Then I realised that I was carrying no money, nor my mobile phone, and without TPR by my side I had little hope of getting back home from London. I needed to catch up with him.

I started running along Kensington High Street again, but my mission was hopeless. Assuming that TPR had run continuously at his own speed since abandoning me, he could be miles ahead. This was it: without my husband I would end up a homeless bag lady.

Then a teenage boy beckoned me into a pub. “Are you Rousse?”, he asked. He’d recognised me from a description of my yellow vest top, and had a message for me. TPR was waiting for me in Winchester Church in the City, and would I please get there straight away?

I explained that this was impossible. I had no idea where to find this church and had no cash for a taxi. A long-haired man at the bar reached into his pocket and brought out an A-Z. “I’ll pay for your taxi”, he said. Such is the kindness of strangers.