Have I really lived so long that I can’t remember my first romantic encounter?  Well, it may be true.  Was it that chubby young man at that party, the one who wasn’t that much to look at, but was the original Mr Nice Guy? 

Was it the young man who took me to see a movie I really wanted to see, the movie which I missed completely because I was too busy fighting off his advances? 

Was it Joe, the young Hungarian who talked about his escape from the Russian invasion of Budapest?  Maybe my memory of those intrepid young men isn’t so much at fault, as my chronological recollection.

Being forced to pick somebody at random, I have decided that what’s his name was my first romantic kiss.  Funny, I can remember that his sister was called Joan.  Hmmm, the lights are on but nobody’s home!  Think alphabetically, my usual memory jogger.  Alan, no.  Alec.  Adam.  Algernon?  Ugh, no.  B, then.  Barry.  No.  Basil?  Hell, no!  Bob.  Bill.  Billy, that’s it, Billy Ditchburn.  A miner who lived in a different county, so our courtship was sporadic to the point of spasmodic.

I was 16, he was about 22, and had been introduced to me by a mutual friend.  He wasn’t that much to look at, but then I never had the ability to attract the Pierce Brosnans of this world, so I gratefully made do with whatever talent was available.

He lived with his married sister, and I spent a week with them at her home in the Lake District, separate bedrooms of course.  Well, I was innocent to a degree that today’s teenagers would find ludicrous.  We spent a couple of days sightseeing, then set off early one morning for the races, to help his friend who ran a soft drinks stall.  He managed to cop a crafty grope or two as we busied ourselves selling lemonade to the hot thirsty punters, and I guess I was too busy to slap his face, so, typical of a man, he assumed that his advances were welcome.  Forty-four years on, I can almost believe they were not welcome, but that’s all I’m going to say about that.

The day was delightful, and if anybody wants someone to run a soft drinks stall at a race meeting, I’ll be the first volunteer in the queue.

The following day Billy took me for a walk in the countryside.  He got amorous and we became engaged in a field of lush grass and clover.  We celebrated the engagement in appropriate (though still chaste) style, snogging ourselves stupid for quite some time.  It was a sound nearby that brought me back to my senses, and we looked up to find ourselves completely surrounded by a ring of spectators, engrossed in our shenanigans.  Yes, we were surrounded by a herd of cows.  I can only thank God they were cows, not bulls!