Enya returns from the rural warehouse disappointed, and joins me in the car.

“They’ve discontinued my model, and the new one looks terrible! And the women are so offhand and rude in there!”

I’ll go in and see for myself.

A young couple from New Zealand, crossing the mown grass fronting the building, break into a run. Laughing, I join them, awkward on my wounded leg. We throw ourselves prone on the gentle brow of the hill, soldiers or scouts alert to dangers all around. Neither seems to question the sudden presence of this disarming stranger.

I can feel grassy stubble tickling my chin. Rash-inducing. Such sensitive skin, stinging in response to a tiny bead of essential oil in an ocean of bathwater. I’m like the Princess and the Pea.

Inside, the brusque attendants admire a much-contoured, Segway-like machine. Over-contoured, like some doomed car model forever to be reviewed as “Good value second-hand due to its weird looks”. Or “Cons: Looks weird”.

Sticky-backed plastic still coats the shiny machine’s skin, slightly dog-eared at awkward corners, yet ready to be peeled off like great sheets of sunburn on arrival in its new mistress’s home. For now, it stands dumbly there against the wall.