Having given up on the optician, BC asked me and TPR to test the eyesight of her son N.
Over Skype, it was rather difficult to persuade him to identify which of the black lines were more distinct (in the green circle or the red one?), especially when he was completely absorbed in the book that he was reading.
TPR successfully piloted the helicopter high into the hills. Then suddenly – on landing – we detected a problem. The engine stuttered as if the fuel tank had run dry.
When we lifted into the air for a second time, we travelled just a few metres over a cliff edge before the engine cut out completely. We plunged forwards to fall to our deaths.
I pitied our parents and everyone else who would mourn us.
I should not have encouraged my sister J onto the scales. At eleven and a half stone, she was not happy.
I received email confirmation that my newly-purchased suede jacket had been delivered to an address in Bedfordshire.
This puzzled me – until I spotted the email address on the order: ‘duped@amazon.co.uk’.
So that was £75 down the drain.
My entire family was flying to New York: mother, father and all three daughters (although my little sister was yet to put in an appearance). I arranged for us to travel in the greatest comfort: by king size bed.
As soon everyone was comfortable under the covers, I picked up the in-flight magazine. The glossy pages were covered in sparkly grains that looked sugar or salt. I did not see the printed warning before I scraped some of the substance off the pages to taste it.
The grains were already burning through my mouth when I read of the risk of contracting cholera. I turned to my father (the vet) mouthing the word ‘Water’. None could be found.
My only comfort was to pet a small grey Staffordshire bull terrier puppy that jumped up on to our bed – until it wet the sheets. This was going to be a very long and uncomfortable journey.
For 48 hours RJH sat in a pit, buried up to his neck in sand. This was his way of raising money for charity.
Many tourists had booked into the west-facing Hebridean hotel specifically to catch the amazing sunsets. There was a spectacular one predicted the next Wednesday and, on the basis of this knowledge, many people had extended their holiday on the Isle of Lewis.
Towards the end of the afternoon I was at the top of the beach and just about to change into my bikini when I noticed the early reddening of the sky. I grabbed my camera, bade a quick farewell to TPR and our holiday companions, and ran all the way down to the water’s age. The closer to the shore, the better the photograph.
Afterwards I walked all the way to Stornoway with the intention of catching a ferry to a more remote island to watch the full sunset. When I calculated that there was not time to do so, I climbed into a pick-up truck taxi at the filling station for a ride back to the hotel.
I was surprised to find TPR on the back seat of the taxi, upset that I had abandoned him earlier and annoyed that I had missed dinner at the hotel. I soon distracted him by asking him about a breaking news story about the biggest divorce settlement in history.
Hugh Grant was back in town.
His time was short, but he knew his priorities – to spend the afternoon with me and JK on the lower floor of the conference venue. Those busy working upstairs had no idea.
DH made two trips to Edinburgh before taking up his new post. Although these were supposedly for house-hunting, I was delighted when he started weeding our garden and – at his own expense – planted out some new flowers and shrubs. I invited him to a bonfire night party as a thank you.
Meanwhile LM paraded around the garden in her latest sale bargain: a shiny bright yellow padded jacket for winter wear.
I joined a French language trip for school children, with RG as my companion. Our base was Nantes. We also took up the option of a side-trip to Lyon.
The latter was a big mistake. When RG checked us out of the Lyon hotel I forgot to pack my case, so ended up leaving all my luggage behind in a vast Lyon clothing warehouse.
Back in Nantes, the tourism officials couldn’t care less about my lost belongings – not even my vast underwear collection (some of which really belonged to my mother and sisters) – and would not help me arrange for its retrieval. When I visited the railway station to discover how much it would cost to return to Lyon by rail, I was astonished at the exorbitant train fares.
I eventually set off to walk to Lyon all by myself. I didn’t make it to my destination. This was because I became trapped in a lighthouse that I encountered on the coast along the route.
Dreamaticus 