PS and I had a vital message for the mistress of the Oxford college. Unfortunately, we did not manage to pass it on before the auditorium started to fill with students.
The topic of the lecture was a 1930s film that starred Greta Garbo. I was a one person site of shame when it became obvious to all that I had never heard of it, let alone seen it.
Afterwards PS and I paid a visit to my old house in Northfield, Birmingham. As we hung out the laundry to dry in the warm attic, we agreed that the street looked much smarter than it did when we left the area at the end of the 1980s.
I knew that I had blown it when DM refused to hand over her car keys. I wanted to retrieve my flat shoes from the boot and exchange them for my high heels. Then I would be able to manage the steep cobbled streets of Pitlochry more easily and keep up with other members of my book group as SC showed us her home town.
DM was cross with me for my childish behaviour over the past couple of days. I really had done my best to be a grown-up, but I just couldn’t help myself. The last straw came when she caught me swinging on the front passenger car seat.
‘I will keep you on my list of contacts’, she sneered, ‘But don’t expect any favours from me’. In that instant I also understood that our wee holiday together in May was cancelled.
I was at the recording of a magazine-style television programme. One of the guests, a member of an influential 1960s rock band, was talking about his earlier career as a child actor, in particular, playing Pip for the TV. The programme presenter said:
“Oh, you played Pip did you? Did you meet him in real life?”.
The programme went to a commercial break while everyone in the studio laughed about ‘the stupidest question ever asked’.
I left the flat I shared with David Tennant to travel to the funeral. I had a police escort.
Later I started to distribute miniature Yorkshire puddings out of a bread crate, leaving them outside the front doors of youth hostels. Spanish tourists became crazy for ‘the Yorkshires’ and Yorkshire puddings became a global sensation.
My grandmother and my mother were attempting to get a body to the Battle of Britain reenactment and wanted me to drive them there in my stupid three-wheeler. However I was having trouble maneuvering it out of the parking space because of the double-parked sofas all down the street.
We attended a lecture about the differences between real Battle of Britain heroes and those represented by Hollywood. This is where we learnt that, in Hollywood, pilots wore fake ladybirds on their sleeves but real heroes wore fake beetles.
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Tagged Battle of Britain, beetle, body, heroes, Hollywood, ladybird, movies, parking, pilots, reenactment, sofa
As we took our seats in the shabby auditorium, I struggled to remember why we had bought tickets to this show. Perhaps we’d been unsuccessful in seeing the act during the Edinburgh Fringe last year, but instead managed to catch the national tour that followed? Whatever the reason, it didn’t look very promising when a small, dark, tattooed lady spoke softly from a shadowy corner of the stage. Like many other audience members, I could barely see or hear her.
Then the whole room suddenly came to life when dozens of other performers appeared – at first apparently out of nowhere – on roller-skates! Some emerged from stage left, right and centre, others from the back of the auditorium and through gaps in the seating. Some even flew in over our heads. What a spectacle, what a show!
Afterwards TPR and I returned to our new house. We had just bought a low white-washed bungalow in a quiet village. The negotiations of the sale had been quite difficult, not least because the vendors wanted us to purchase the contents as well as the house. Why anyone would want multiple sets of identical nick-nacks dotted around their house, we could not understand – until we realised too late that we had been conned into undertaking both the ownership and management of the village gift shop.
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Tagged auditorium, gift, house, nick-nack, performer, roller-skate, shop, shopkeeper, spectacle, tattoo, TPR, village
TPR died a hero in an attempt to save an 8 year-old Brownie. The poor girl was held in the clutches of a mad woman who was set on proving a point about ancestors in Billingham, Teesside. TPR was crushed under the wheels of several vehicles as he tried to leap from one moving car into another across three lanes of the A1(M).
I witnessed this grisly sight thanks to my advanced time-travelling talents. When I returned to the present and his tiny blue bedsit (a garden shed which he rented from a woman who owned the house and land on which it was sited), I was tempted to tell TPR everything about his future fate. But what would be the point? We couldn’t change the future.
I was more enraged after the tragedy by the tributes to my late husband from ‘friends’ who couldn’t even get my name right. One former colleague publicly passed on his condolences to a supposed-wife called Caroline. I prayed that this was just a mistake. Surely when he said ‘Caroline’ he really meant me?
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Tagged A1(M), ancestors, bedsit, Billingham, Brownie, Caroline, condolence, husband, Teesside. time travel, TPR, tribute, wife