On the outskirts of Glasgow, in a field, en route to a football match, my companion wrapped me in a passionate embrace and pulled me to the ground. We rolled around in the grass for several minutes. It was only on hearing a familiar voice call out my name that I came to my senses and realised the error of my ways.
The man disgusted with my outrageous behaviour was TPR’s former colleague DJ. I chased after him in a hope that I could convince him that he had witnessed nothing but a friendly snog.
Of all the useless made-up explanations and excuses that I offered to account for my apparent dalliance only one seemed to persuade DJ that I was not cheating on my husband: I told him that my companion was gay.
