TPR booked us into what he believed to be a posh, family-run, hotel. While the fabric of the building, with its enormous rooms and a beautiful old oak staircase, hinted at a more majestic past, now it was just part of a low budget accommodation chain that catered mainly for bus tour parties. Nevertheless, I felt quite a home in our top floor bedroom. This was mainly due to my familiarity with the old furniture, books, and family relics that were crammed into every available corner.

The public rooms were swarming with staff keen to capture the visitor experience for the hotel chain’s web site. When I turned up in the dining room for the evening meal dressed in a long white diaphanous linen skirt with black knickers visible beneath it, the photographers went wild for me. Apparently this was no fashion faux pas, but the latest look! Rather than being photographed, however, I just wanted to be left in peace with my sister J at the dinner table to enjoy the company of our new Indian boyfriends.

Back upstairs again, TPR entertained me by donning a long grey wig, puffing up his muscles with the help of fast-acting steroid cream, then riding around our bedroom on a child’s blue bicycle.