‘ I WAS recently separated and thought Paris in the spring was just what I needed. I had visions of wandering round art galleries, sipping espressos and flirting with waiters.

The reality was rather different, as I was constrained by time and money, as usual. I ended up on a cheap-and-cheerful four-day coach trip.

At the terminal, our coach driver introduced himself. Not bad, I thought — tall, nice-looking, polite, funny and good company. When we finally arrived, our hotel was not so attractive. It looked like the sort of place you might stay in for a training course in Swindon. “Ho hum, romantic Paris,” I thought, but was determined to make the best of it and headed to the bar for a drink to cheer myself up.

The Driver was there, working the room, so I decided to play hard to get. He worked his way round to me eventually, as I knew he would, and he seemed intrigued. I wanted him to know I was not the usual naive, nervous coach passenger — I was well travelled and used to looking after myself.

After half an hour or so, he wished me good night, reminding me we had a busy schedule and an early start the next day. I smiled and let him go. It was dawning on me that he was a very smooth operator.

The following day, we whizzed round Paris trying to cram in as many of the sights as possible. I was singled out for discreet but special attention. Free teas, coffees, miniature bottles of wine, a souvenir of the Eiffel Tower (which still adorns my handbag, like a trophy) all came my way.

At the end of the day, the inevitable happened — after too much wine, my inhibitions flew out of the window and I was a willing victim. I spent the night in his room — the sex was great but the man was insatiable. He never seemed to sleep and somehow managed to bound out of bed in the morning, ready for another packed day of sightseeing and partying.

That evening, I gave the bar a miss and crawled off to my single room for an early night. The Driver asked me to join him in the bar, but I was exhausted — I had to get some sleep. I did briefly wonder how he was getting on in the bar, but assumed he had his sights set on an early night as well.

The next morning, we had to head for home and, after a very early breakfast, boarded the coach. It’s been fun, I reflected, and I have had a holiday fling.

There was one passenger missing and we sat waiting. Last to emerge from the hotel was the beautiful black girl who had dogged the Driver’s steps and hung on his every word.

She looked exhausted and staggered slightly, dragging her case behind her. The Driver leapt forward and picked up the case, enclosing her small hand in his large one as he did so. “Hold on a minute,” I thought, “wasn’t that our special sign?” The girl collapsed into the seat behind me and dropped her head onto the headrest in front. “I’m soooooo tired,” she moaned.

The Driver looked up, smiling to himself, his eyes crinkling attractively in the early-morning light. He saw me watching him through the coach window and gave me a slow wink. Then, he settled into his seat and we pulled away. He had another couple of notches on his well-travelled belt.’