Two disasters: (1) I completely forgot the route to the training event; (2) the brakes on my red Peugeot 205 were failing fast.
I pulled off the A90 at Craigiehall and found a spot where I could park safely. The owner of a nearby property was furious that I was blocking the main entrance to her farm, especially since she was expecting her wife to return from the supermarket at any moment. She was more sympathetic when I explained my predicament.
KT and JH transformed the back of our house into a drunken disco.
This annoyed most of our guests. They had anticipated a sedate afternoon of tea, cake, and gentle conversation while taking the opportunity to admire our vast new drawing room. The majority left early, disgusted.
TPR booked us into what he believed to be a posh, family-run, hotel. While the fabric of the building, with its enormous rooms and a beautiful old oak staircase, hinted at a more majestic past, now it was just part of a low budget accommodation chain that catered mainly for bus tour parties. Nevertheless, I felt quite a home in our top floor bedroom. This was mainly due to my familiarity with the old furniture, books, and family relics that were crammed into every available corner.
The public rooms were swarming with staff keen to capture the visitor experience for the hotel chain’s web site. When I turned up in the dining room for the evening meal dressed in a long white diaphanous linen skirt with black knickers visible beneath it, the photographers went wild for me. Apparently this was no fashion faux pas, but the latest look! Rather than being photographed, however, I just wanted to be left in peace with my sister J at the dinner table to enjoy the company of our new Indian boyfriends.
Back upstairs again, TPR entertained me by donning a long grey wig, puffing up his muscles with the help of fast-acting steroid cream, then riding around our bedroom on a child’s blue bicycle.
I helped GL assemble a collection of wicker baskets as a 50th birthday present for her sister-in-law (and my mother-in-law) GRB (aged 84).
I opened the back door to find out who was knocking. It was the ghost of my dog, complaining bitterly that I had left him in the back garden for three and a half years.
Later I was walking around a conference centre when my companion was shot in the chest. No-one else noticed this – even the victim – and I attempted to phone for an ambulance. Sadly I had completely forgotten how to use a telephone. Frantically I ran at a troop of Morris dancers, screaming for help.
GW left EW and moved into a boarding house. From here he broadcast his popular YouTube channel on working at Rolls Royce.
I couldn’t see the attraction myself. I’d rather be playing Scrabble.
We finally tracked down DM, now working in a supermarket. She told us that she was looking forward to travelling to the reunion using funds from a recent inheritance.
We didn’t have the heart to tell her that we knew all the details of her recent windfall. This was thanks to our extended stalking of every single member of our year group.
My two sisters and I took a family holiday with a difference. The resort turned out to be our childhood home in Stockton-on-Tees, and both our deceased parents joined us there to make up a party of five keen holiday-makers.
The house was very impressive. It was so tidy that you could see the carpet in every room! My father, however, was an embarrassment. His idea of fun was to bumble on and on about political scandals in Newcastle.
Dreamaticus 