TPR and GJ were sewn into a two-man Black Watch tartan straight-jacket. Forced together so closely, the dancing tutor believed this would speed up the process of teaching them the moves for the forthcoming ball. Neither was particularly charmed by this idea. In complete contrast the entire single female population of Edinburgh could barely contain their excitement, bursting with enthusiasm for the chance to dance with two of the best-looking men in town, with the added bonus of perhaps finding a husband at the social event of the year. I was just grateful that KC featured on the guest list: at least there would be one man at the party familiar with the ways of the dance floor.
TPR and GJ had managed to unravel themselves during the night and looked much more comfortable with one another when they awoke together at the guest house on the Isle of Lewis the next day. I climbed out of bed and wandered off to see if I could find our host. He was nowhere to be seen. Instead I came across a foursome of newly-appointed hot tub salesmen plonked on the sofas in the sitting room. I glanced out the window at the waves rolling in from the Atlantic and commented that I thought it unlikely that anyone who lived so close to the sea would be interested in buying a hot tub. Then I spotted the menacing line tattooed across the cheek of one of the salesmen “guests”. My first thought was that he perhaps sold a new line in “goth hot tubs”. My second was fear.
Dreamaticus 