I didn’t want to join the party too early so I took my time over my choice of outfit. My sister J walked into the room just as I was putting on a pale blue tight-fit cotton trouser suit with blue suede high-heeled boots. Both she and I agreed that there was nothing in my cupboard suitable to wear under the suit jacket, so I buttoned it up tight and hoped that nobody would notice my white bra underneath. We headed downstairs, leaving JG and others working their way through my wardrobe in an attempt to source suitable party outfits for themselves.
The party itself turned out to be some kind of work convention in Toronto located underneath a shopping mall near to a mini fake French chateau. I found part of the trade floor curtained off for VIPs like me. The first woman to greet me immediately issued an instruction that I head to Gap and buy myself a white scoop neck T shirt. I couldn’t possibly be seen at a professional event in such a state of undress.
I wanted to blame TPR for all this. Had he not left me I would have known what to wear. I left another desperate voicemail message on his phone pleading with him to return to his wife, even though I knew that this was completely out of the question. I had given my best years to him, yet now I was destined to see out the rest of my days as a sad, single, old woman.
Dreamaticus 
Rwandan driver leads travellers a merry dance over the sand dunes of Holy Island with a horse (Rousse)
After an enormous breakfast of smoked salmon and roast potatoes – some of which I had to put back in the fridge because I simply couldn’t manage it all – I caught the train south. My travelling companions were TPR, a teenage Perthshire schoolgirl and her 5 year old sister heading for Heathrow airport with a sack of potatoes and several large bottles of milk, and a tall Rwandan man in his early twenties.
I had met the Rwandan before when we had shared a commentating job at a recent sports event. I was pleased to see him again. Indeed TPR and I got on with him so well that when we reached Berwick-upon-Tweed TPR and I left the train to take up of his offer of a lift for the rest of the journey south. At the time we didn’t appreciate that his mode of transport was horse and carriage, nor that we would be stopping off at every tourist attraction along the route to London.
The first destination was the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. It was bad enough that we would be interrupting our journey to cross the causeway and see the sights. Worse still, our driver felt obliged to access the island on foot. He unhitched the beautiful black horse from the carriage and led it over the sand dunes. TPR and I followed, carrying all our belongings for fear that they would be stolen from the carriage if it were left unguarded. Our driver walked at a terrific pace, and we soon lost him. Poor TPR struggled even to keep up with me due to blisters from his new shoes.
By the time we reached the island, and its new visitor centre which charged for access to the village, our driver had disappeared completely. His horse was tethered to a tree in the distance, but he was gone forever.
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