I’m having terrible trouble concentrating on all this—not because it isn’t interesting, but it’s just that I can feel Dean’s thigh pressed up against mine. I have to put this in context—this is not a very big tent and there are a lot of us squashed in it. I don’t think this is a deliberate ploy on his part. His thighs, however, are very hot. He’s laughing a lot and every time he does his stool jiggles and as a result his leg rubs against mine. It’s very distracting.

Two other guys are sharing a tent. One is a train driver from Essex called Graham. He says he never normally tells people he’s a train driver, because anyone who has ever commuted pounces on him and blames him for all of their horrible experiences at the hands of Railtrack. He says it’s worse than being a GP. Which is a shame because the guy he’s sharing with is a GP—a very handy profession in my view. His name is Ian and he’s smiling and affable. We immediately complain to him about our blisters, bunions and insect bites. He says that is why he normally tells everyone he is a train driver. Ian is good-natured, eats all his dinner and is the type of man I’d like for my doctor. I can tell just by looking at him that he’d be much more understanding of my child-free predicament than my current miserable bastard who has three kids all of whom he seems to hate with a passion.

The only other single woman is Saffron. I probably need to go no further. She is more than likely the sort of woman I’m going to end up being. Saffron is strident, childless and very slightly mad. She’s already told us that she’s holding a full complement of homeopathic substances—but is she holding a full complement of brain cells? I’m not entirely sure. She’s come to dinner wearing a jewel-coloured floaty kaftan that looks slightly incongruous in the mountains. Saffron works as a relationship counsellor and I’m going to avoid getting into conversation with her like the plague. I’m fully expecting her to be vegetarian. I thought I had run away from everything, but I may have just had a vision of my future if I don’t change my ways. She is my Bob Marley’s ghost—or do I mean Jacob Marley? I’m glad that Saffron too has opted for a solo tent experience, otherwise I’d be sharing with her and I think there’s a lesson to be learned there.