There was an intruder in my holiday cottage. I was sure of it. I could sense him on the floor to the left of my bed. To distract him, I held out an oatmeal biscuit. This he readily accepted.
While he munched away in the dark, I carefully stepped out of bed, crossed the room, and pulled out a chest drawer. I managed to pack a pair of grey shorts, a pink White Stuff sweatshirt, and my white sandals into a rucksack before the intruder made his move and pounced.
As he dragged me back to the bed I was convinced that he intended to rape me. Somehow, however, I managed to break free. I ran straight out into the forest daylight to mingle with other holiday-makers. I knew that I would now be safe so long as I did not make a fuss.
I was right: my intruder followed me, but kept his distance. I stole a few glances at him so that I would be able to describe him to the police. His most distinctive feature was the single tattoo that stretched from the top of his head all the way down his tiny frame, giving him the look of a sad, under-nourished, lizard.
I eventually lost the intruder at the Dr Who convention. This was thanks to the deployment of ED’s hard stare. One look from her, and he was off.
(The convention itself was a great disappointment. It was run by Americans who had only recently ‘discovered’ Dr Who so the content of their papers was highly descriptive. Indeed HR’s two-hour workshop was so dull that nearly all the British delegates walked out half way through the first presentation.)