I was passed from one Canadian young man to another. It was as if the second had asked the first if he could borrow a bag of sugar.

This was such a disappointment. I had become quite attached to Canadian boyfriend number 1. In fact, I almost believed that this tall, dark super-fit man might be my life partner. I now understood, however, that I should probably have classed him as ‘out of my league’.

Canadian boyfriend number 2 – fairer, shorter, and without the washboard six-pack of his predecessor – would have to do. Despite his shortcomings, however, I was confident that I would learn to love him.

The two men house-shared with three young women, also Canadian. I got on really well with them all. I visited their house frequently, and we often socialised together.

Early in the relationship with Canadian boyfriend number 2, the six of us walked through the park down to the docks. When I sat down for a rest at the side of the road, a couple of people threw their spare change at my feet. In the time that it took to explain that I was a well-educated British woman with a decent salary and not a beggar, my Canadian friends had all disappeared.

I was later reunited with the three young women, but the men were lost forever. I later heard a rumour that they had fallen down a ravine in the mountains and died.