Molly Cooper's Dream Date. Barbara Hannay

for it.

      Felicity, of course, told me loads about you, but you know that already, so I won’t repeat it. Anyway, you’d only get a swelled head. Your mother adores you—but you know that, too, don’t you? And she’s so proud that you’re writing a novel. You wrote very clever essays at school, so she knows you’ll be a huge success.

      Anyway, as I was saying, we got on like the proverbial house on fire—so much so that I was shocked when I realised how late it was. Then, as we were leaving, Felicity told me she was catching the Tube home.

      That was a shock, Patrick. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security and had totally forgotten the possibility that she might know about my Tube issues. Besides, your mother has such a sophisticated air I assumed she’d catch a taxi if she hadn’t brought her own car.

      But she said the Tube was fast and convenient, and so I walked with her to Sloane Square Station and we chatted all the way until we were right inside. And then it seemed like the right thing to do to wait with her till her train arrived. Which meant stepping onto the escalator and heading down, down into the black hole of the Underground!

      That was a seriously freaking-out moment.

      Honestly, I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack, and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. But Felicity was so calm and smiling, telling me what a lovely afternoon she’d had, and suggesting that maybe we could have another afternoon together some time. She made me feel so OK I managed to start breathing again.

      I must admit that once I was down there, standing on the platform, the station seemed so very big and solid and well-lit and I felt much better than I’d expected to. I actually told Felicity then that I’d been a tiny bit frightened, and she said she totally understood; she would be terrified if she was in the Australian Outback, and why didn’t I travel with her to Paddington?

      She had to change trains there, but if I felt OK I could travel back on my own, and I’d soon be a Tube veteran. She even gave me her mobile phone number in case I got into trouble. She wouldn’t have reception until she was above ground again, but it didn’t matter—I was over the worst by then, and actually sitting on the train was fine.

      Everything went so well I was able to text her: Thanks. This is a breeze!

      So I think I’m cured.

      And I know that ultimately you’re the person I should thank, Mr Patrick Knight-in-shining-armour. Because you arranged it, didn’t you?

      I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel.

      Molly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

      PS Feel free to tell me to pull my head in, but I did wonder if it’s possible to over-think the planning of a book. The way I over-thought the whole business of entering the Tube. Do you ever get the urge to just leap right in and let the words flow?