I’m addressing you, James K, my creep of an ex-husband. Now that we have irrevocably ended out ten years of marriage, fortunately without children, I relish revealing to both you and the world-wide public an incident that happened at an early stage in our marriage – and you knew nothing of it.

I’m confident you will read this – since I know you avidly visit this site, and that the reference to Dublin in the title will prick your curiosity.

Yes, James, this is what really happened that wet March night on my fifty mile drive from outside Newry to collect you from Dublin airport.

For general readers, this was around the time the Northern Irish Troubles had wound down yet military patrols were still active around both sides of the border. On this evening my husband was on the last flight in from London, due to land soon after nine thirty.

As he had been away for most of the week – and I was still in the sexually enthusiastic stage of our marriage – I dressed appropriately. My scooped top black clinging sweater didn’t leave much to the imagination, especially as I was braless underneath – though a little black satin jacket ensured I could walk through the airport without attracting too many lascivious comments. However, I knew my matching black satin short skirt, black stockings and high heels were sufficiently attention grabbing to let him see what a package I had prepared for him. With my scarlet lipstick and my black hair piled high the way he liked it, I was sure we wouldn’t make it home before he’d had his way with me up a country lane somewhere.

It was dark but not too cold, due to heavy cloud cover when I left home, about seven thirty, in plenty of time. As I barrelled down the Dublin road I was fizzing with sexual anticipation at seeing him again. I had travelled about twenty miles and was now south of the border in the Republic of Ireland when I became aware of a tremoring in the suspension. Immediately I suspected a soft tyre so I pulled off the main road, as it would be too dangerous to change a tyre there in the dark, and drove a few hundred yards down a country lane before I saw somewhere suitable to pull in. I lifted the little flashlight from the glove compartment and got out. I was right, the tyre was almost flat.

I was annoyed. I wasn’t dressed for this and I knew that in changing a spare I was bound to get a little dirty. So, to protect my jacked I popped it in the car before bunching my skirt up to my waist to avoid getting it soiled. Then I got the jack and wheel brace out. I heaved the spare wheel on to the ground before squatting down to secure the jack in place and wound it up. Then it started to rain.

It didn’t just rain, it deluged. My car had only two doors, but one was too tight to the ditch for me to enter and the other already had the erect jack blocking the driver’s door. The little flashlight was suddenly totally inadequate. I could see nothing with it and there was no obvious shelter around. I was being drenched. I could feel my sweater already soaking; my hair, arms and legs were dripping, but I had to keep working, there was no option.

What a mess. I need to start loosening the wheel nuts next, but I could barely see them through the downpour. Then, in the distance, I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. I stood up and pulled my skirt down, smoothing the soaked satin in a vain attempt to tidy my appearance. I could see the headlights now; they were higher than a car’s and as it grew closer I could hear the rasp of a big engine. It must be a truck.

While yards from me I made it out as an Irish Army truck with a canvas top, and as it pulled up beside me I could see the uniformed passenger in the front cab grinning down at me.
“Looks like you could do with a hand, Miss,” he shouted out. The truck pulled in at the front of my car.

The passenger and the driver, a big man, got out pulling on waterproofs.