Tall unflappable public schoolboy has his 21st at a Jacobean pile in the Cotswolds. We get the coach down. I hug the toilet, once again, until someone bangs on the toilet door and extricates me. When the party winds down we pile into cars and end up at a cottage in the middle of nowhere. It’s so cold we light the oven with the door open, and then stand on chairs to catch the rising heat. In the morning a kind soul drives me to Cheltenham to catch the coach: everyone else gets stuck in a blizzard on the M4.