The Hunting Party

He pretends to tip an imaginary cap from his bald head.

broad-shouldered, hunched, and then the brief gleam of eyes

So we’re finally here. And yet I have a sudden longing to be back in the city. Even my office desk would do it. The Loch Corrin station is laughably tiny. A solitary platform, with the steel-covered slope of a mountain shearing up behind, the top lost in cloud. The signpost, the National Rail standard, looks like a practical joke

I look again at the brochure in my lap

is the odd one out, not being in a couple. In a way, I suppose you could say that she is more of an interloper than I am these days.

Miranda looked particularly cross at the hour. And then everyone got on the booze, of course. Mark, Giles and Julien hit the drinks trolley early, somewhere around Doncaster, even though it was only eleven. They got happily tipsy, affectionate and loud (the next few seats along did not look impressed). They seem to be able to fall back into the easy camaraderie of years gone by no matter how much time has passed since they last saw each other

city dweller’s clothes and wheeled

. I’ve always found his unspoken attraction nicely ego-stroking, yes. But never a turn-on.

, open knickers and suspender combo.

It’s like a spaceship has just touched down on the bank of the loch.