I was the hero of the exhibition hall when I caught a toddler-on-the-loose by the arm and promptly returned her to her grateful parents.

We’d heard rumours of the wild animals that preyed on visitors as they left the venue. The first we encountered were the owls that swooped down if to attack, retreating at the very last moment. The golden monkey didn’t cause us any trouble, other than linger nearby as we headed towards the exit. The most frightening creature was a huge maned lion. It leapt down from a high bank to land right at our feet – thankfully in the form of a small purple cat. We managed to leave before two men armed with shotguns had a chance to aim their weapons at us.

We walked back along the country lane to the spot where we had parked the black Porsche. Along the way my companion confessed the extent of her love for TPR in the 1990s. I listened with compassion, pleased that all three of us now enjoyed a friendly relationship.

The happy atmosphere was shattered when we discovered that the car had been stolen. I couldn’t remember whether I had left the rucksack that held my laptop on the back ledge. If so, I was in deep trouble: none of the presentation files on the desktop were backed up.