ONE LAST drunken evening in the Turl pub before we left Oxford for ever ended with a “Get a room!” everyone After three years of slow-burn flirting, I realised that if it wasn’t now, it might be never. The next morning, I presented her with train tickets to Paris for that afternoon and reservations at the Disneyland Resort for one night only.

“What about your blonde bimbo girlfriend?” she asked.

“Or your organic-oaf rugger-bugger boyfriend, come to that?” I replied.

We agreed that they didn’t have to know – it was just one night, after all.

On the Eurostar, I suggested that we explore the loos and join the undersea equivalent of the mile-high club. But she suggested I try not to be so grubby. So, by the time we got to our room, it was debatable which would explode first: me or the nightly fireworks.

Anita unzipped her overnight bag and pulled on a Minnie Mouse mask. I made a lunge for her. She pushed me away: “Where’s your mask?”

Apparently, it would amount to unfaithfulness if she were to shag me, but Mickey didn’t count. Fine. I went off to buy a Mickey mask.

When I returned, Minnie was taking a bath. I put the mask on and knocked on the door. “Hell-lo!” I said, just like Mickey. “Does Minnie want a playmate?”

“Don’t do the voice, it freaks me out.”

Okay. No voice. “And wait outside. I’m enjoying my bath.”

Right. I sat on the bed feeling deflated, watching a distinctly unerotic selection of TV channels.

Twenty minutes later, Minnie at last emerged. “Come over here, my great big Mickey,” she said.

I didn’t wait for her to change her mind again, and we leapt on the bed.

Which is when her mobile phone rang. I picked it up and threw it across the room.

“That could be Brian!” she screamed, pushing me off.

She’d told the boyfriend that she was visiting a sick aunt in Paris.

I reached the phone just before she did and answered the call. “Hell-loo!!”

She grabbed the phone and, with all her strength, pushed me out of the door.

Which is when Nigel, or whatever his name was, aged seven, from wherever he was from, spotted me standing naked and proud, with just a Mickey Mouse mask on.

“Mummy, look, Mickey’s got no clothes on.” A pause, then: “Daddy, why’s Mickey got no clothes on?”

I froze. I could imagine what daddy’s response might be. I barged back into our room.

There was soon an angry knocking at the door. I ditched the mask and opened the door to a father who looked me straight in the eye and wanted to know if I’d been cavorting naked in the corridor.

I denied it, then asked him if his son could describe the pervert. “Yes,” he said sheepishly. “Six foot tall, with big round ears and a squishy black nose.” Later, and after a lot of grovelling, I finally got to be Mouse and Man.’