So, precisely one week after running into my old pal, I find myself driving up the winding road that hugs the west edge of Loch Lomond; that's always been my favourite part of the journey to Oban. Excitement - mixed with nerves - jingles its way through my veins as I wonder what's in store for me over the next couple of months.

Packing up my life in Glasgow took me a shockingly brief length of time; I don't seem to have acquired very much in the way of belongings over the years. Turns out I had far more sex toys than I realised, though! 

I'd been tearfully waved off by Abby earlier that day, who had acted as if she was sending me off to war. "I'm going to miss you so much," she'd wailed, clinging to me like a needy child. "Who am I going to burden with all my problems now?"

"What problems? You don't have any!" I'd laughed, but I was only half-joking. My sibling's life seems pretty damn perfect these days, while the only direction I currently have is the annoying female voice barking instructions out of my satnav. I flick that off since I actually already know the route to Oban like the back of my hand and sigh, reaching for the radio dial. It's Brody time!

"Hello and welcome to my last show for a while, folks." Ah . . . That voice. The way it lowers intimately at times, as if he's sharing a secret that only I know. The slight west coast lilt to his accent which often makes me shiver delightedly.

I phoned in to the show once, a few years ago. Well, actually, I called on multiple occasions if I'm being completely honest . . . But I only got to speak to him the one time.  He was doing a segment on embarrassing moments, asking listeners to share theirs.

Mine was running-related, which I guess is likely why it made it onto the air. I was so nervous to talk to him - which is unlike me, as generally I'm the blueprint for confidence - but he immediately put me at ease. And so I found myself growing bolder as I told him about the race where the elasticated waist of my shorts decided to snap mere metres before the end, causing the shorts to slip down my legs despite me frantically trying to stop them, tripping me up and causing me to roll over the finish line with them wrapped around my ankles and my knickers fully on show.

"I still placed second," I'd added proudly while he laughed delightedly at my story. I liked that laugh almost as much as I liked his voice - it was unashamedly loud and rowdy. As an athlete, he'd come across as very serious and focused, sometimes even arrogant. As a DJ, he was a different person - warm and friendly, and engaging. Was it the shift in careers, or merely a result of him growing up? I'm not entirely sure, but I have always been utterly enchanted by whatever version of him I've been presented with over the years.

We'd chatted for a few more minutes, me in a haze of dizzy disbelief throughout. Nobody got this much airtime with him, apart from his colleagues! I was clearly special. And it wasn't even just me who thought so because shortly after the call wound up, I actually spotted a few folk on Twitter discussing the chemistry between us. I briefly pictured a viral campaign where the social media world tried to get us together: a Cinderella story for the digital age where headlines like  "BRODY MAXWELL DESPERATELY SEEKS MYSTERY CALLER!" would pop up in the Daily Fail.

Then I remembered that:

1) I wasn't actually single (it was the early days of Tam), and
2) I was completely delusional.

So I tucked that memory away neatly, carefully, into a cute little box in my brain lined with pretty fragranced paper. And every so often, I bring it out and examine it and remember how bloody amazing it felt to make Brody laugh like that.

I still can't quite believe I'm going to get to meet him soon! I let out a delighted little squeak, then allow myself to sing along with Teddy Swims. I'm completely off-tune, of course, but Teddy doesn't know that.

As "Bad Dreams" is replaced by a Taylor song, I briefly wonder - not for the first time - what is prompting Brody's break from his radio show. Is he just long overdue a holiday, or is it something else? Coral was pretty vague about it; she just said he'd told her a few days previously that he'd be travelling up soon and staying in the flat he owns in Oban for a few months. She wasn't  even sure what he's planning to do with his time once he's there. "Hopefully, he can help out with the bar a bit, though," she'd added.

I hope so, I'd thought silently at that, falling briefly into another brief fantasy of us making eyes at each other over red velvet cupcakes and French Martinis. My brief daydream had been almost immediately ruined by Coral pinching my arm and telling me to "stop flirting on work time"; she knows me well!

The journey goes relatively smoothly, soundtracked by numerous good songs and Brody's dulcet tones, and I find myself driving down the hill leading into Oban just before five p.m. It's still bright and sunny - sunset won't be for a good few hours yet - so I decide to make a quick detour to the beach at Ganavan Sands first, just to stretch my legs and inhale the amazingly fresh air. I sink down into the sand, laughing as I watch a small dog stubbornly refuse to return to its owner, obviously realising it's time to go home. The owner grins at my reaction as he passes, and I can't help but notice he's very good-looking.

I guess even if things don't work out with Brody, I've got access to a different dating pool up here. Maybe this change of scenery will even kick my libido back into gear, if nothing else? I close my eyes tightly and compose a quick prayer, a habit ingrained in me by my very Catholic parents. Although I'm sure they didn't have these kind of prayers in mind.

"Please let me find whatever it is I'm looking for here," I murmur pleadingly towards the heavens. "And can you give me my sex drive back while you're at it?"

I open my eyes to find the runaway dog standing directly in front of me, looking slightly confused with his head cocked to the side and tongue lolling out of his mouth. He's accompanied by the sexy owner, who has bent down to clip the dog's lead back on and - judging by his expression - has apparently heard every word of my highly inappropriate prayer. He clears his throat awkwardly - the owner, not the dog - and then both of them back away, leaving me cringing and red-faced in the sand.

Lou Watson's Oban 2025 summer season is clearly off to a flying start.