They’re all down at Muncaster, holding on to the gazebos with their teeth as a playful breeze plucks at the azaleas and tosses our gaily-coloured craft materials hither and yon. They’re also probably covering everything with polythene on account of the teeny-weeny amount of drizzle that’s pelting down.

From my choice of pronoun the more astute amongst you will gather that I’m not there with them.

Too right.

I’m not a masochist, I’m not gullible and I’m not going.