As the coach left the outskirts of Glasgow, I tested the reclining bed that I had discovered next to the window. It was very versatile, with several options for its positioning.
The traffic had thinned out by the time we reached the shores of a loch. The same was true of the road, by now just a slender line of tarmac clinging close to the water’s edge. The driver should have been taking more care as we skirted a bend at too high a speed, but I was impressed when he corrected his mistake with the expertise of a racing driver.
On the next bend the driver was not so lucky. He was too late in his attempt to correct his steering and the coach plunged straight into the loch, leaving a few ‘lucky’ passengers to struggle their way out of the vehicle and swim to safety in the freezing water, fully clothed. At first I tried to reach the nearest bank, but wasted far too much energy fighting the current that was pulling me in the other direction. It made more sense to give up, drift to the far shore, join my fellow passengers there, and await rescue.
When I eventually pulled myself out of the water, there was just one thought on my mind. Where was TPR? Had he survived the accident, or was he trapped in the submerged coach, presumably drowned?
The signs were not good. TPR was nowhere to be seen.
Dreamaticus 