Unfortunately, on my slow way up I couldn’t help noticing the pool of thick gearbox oil, a physical proclamation of my foolishness, growing steadily larger under my freshly incontinent motorcycle.

“Well, these things can’t be helped I suppose, a man must keep his word, or what is he?” I muttered to myself as I kicked the brute back to life, and once more headed off into the snow. Luckily, a few miles down the road I found a small garage, and upon explaining my mission, swiftly had an old tin jug of gear oil pushed into my hands and an equally swift refusal of payment, which warmed my heart if not my shaking fingers.

The rest of the journey I do not remember, apparently I arrived fifteen minutes early, crashing my motorcycle into the hedge outside the church, was given a flask of brandy and propped up on a pew in the corner, then half carried to the rather spectacular party which followed, during which it is said that I consumed several jugs of strong cider and thoroughly disgraced myself in every way possible, before filling my pockets with buffet snacks and staggering out into the night in search of my trusty motorcycle.

The £10 I spent on having a small bouquet of flowers with a brief note of apology delivered to my friends new bride, but I imagine its hard not to forgive a man with such scant regard for personal safety in the face of such a bitter winter.