Chris was a manager in an oil refinery. It was the usual jumble of endless pipes, vast containers and flares and, like all managers in refineries, Chris had a large aerial photograph of the plant, in glorious colour, on his office wall. From the air, the refinery looked orderly and systematic – a place that must have been contrived with the aid of a set-square and spirit level.

Chris had a striking distinguishing feature – a generous shock of ginger hair (well, orange really) above a pale, heavily freckled face. His nickname was Tonic. This may seem puzzling but it can be explained. In Chris’ school days his nickname was, unsurprisingly, Ginger. At university, gradually, in the lazy way people have with nicknames, it became shortened to Gin. And Gin reminded people of gin and tonic ...

As it happens, Tonic was an appropriate label for Chris for another, quite unrelated, reason. You see, Chris was very much a morning person and was lively from the moment his head left the pillow. He would leap up, ready to seize the day, at 6 am. Swiftly pulling on some old clothes, he would rouse a reluctant dog and set off on a brisk walk. Everyone he met (mercifully not many that early in the morning) he greeted with unrestrained enthusiasm. Back from a three-mile walk, he would make a cup of tea for his wife (not a morning person, so still in bed) and then have a lukewarm shower and a vigorous rub down with a rough towel. Chris had acquired a taste for cool showers at his boarding school where cold, not merely cool, showers were the norm. (Another longstanding tradition at his school had been a rule that trouser pockets were sewn up. No wonder Chris exhibited some strange behaviour.)

The international oil-company Chris worked for frequently dispatched managers to the Lake District to participate in an Outward Bound training course. Leadership was the theme and the aim of the course was to increase participants’ self-belief by setting them various physical challenges. There were orienteering exercises, long hikes on the fells, some rock climbing and some canoeing in fast-flowing water. The course culminated in an activity involving participants being dumped in the middle of nowhere, with a tent and meagre rations, and left to fend for themselves for three days.

This was exactly the sort of experience Chris relished and he was delighted when his turn came to undertake the training. Conditions at the Outward Bound centre were Spartan (no problem for Chris, just for everyone else!) and participants slept in dormitories with bunk beds. It was traditional to toss a coin to decide who would take the bottom bunk. As it happens, Chris lost the toss and was consigned to a top bunk. Ignorant of Chris’ hyperactive tendencies, no one realised what a fearful mistake this would turn out to be – particularly for the person in the bottom bunk.

Despite the physical exertions of the first day of the course (they had walked miles over the fells as part of a mountain rescue exercise), Chris woke as early as usual and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. This caused the bunk beds to wobble and the person in the bottom bunk woke with a start. He was faced with an extraordinary sight: Chris’ cheerful face grinning down at him between two thin, pale legs covered in bright ginger hairs.

‘New day, new opportunities!’ shouted Chris with his customary enthusiasm, and he launched himself off the bunk and landed on the floor.

This extravagant behaviour repeated itself every morning, causing widespread distress to everyone in Chris’ dormitory. Never had a group of managers been keener to embark on the three-day solitary exercise.

A few weeks after the course, each person in the dorm received a small parcel marked ‘personal’. Inside was a hand-made mug bearing the slogan ‘New day, new opportunities!’ in large letters. It turned out that hyperactive Chris was an amateur potter. He just wanted to make sure that his colleagues took the message seriously.