I knew the identity of the murderer, but for the time being was keeping it to myself. After all, he was a nice young man. Why should I pass on information that would ruin his career?
Eventually, however, I knew that the detective would exert a sufficient moral pressure to make me speak out. So long as she was patient, I would eventually spill the beans.
I found two interesting things in the (old) University of Birmingham main library.
First I saw TT, all the way from Denver on sabbatical, accompanied by one of his sons, heading into a meeting room.
Second, I spotted the library cat. From a distance, he looked like any other ginger tom. However, on approach I realised that this was no domestic pussy, but a small leopard. At first I was terrified to come face to face with such an animal, but his minder assured me that he was tame. I then spent a happy half hour stroking him in the stacks.
I returned to the shopping parade near where I was brought up and was delighted by the new shop that was selling hot cross buns the size of pouffes AND pouffes that looked like hot cross buns.
Former University of Birmingham astrophysicist Keith rented out rooms in his shared new-build house (with tiny kitchen).
When we paid him a visit, I was delighted to discover that the flowery sitting room carpet was almost identical to the one that used to cover the drawing room at my parents’ old house.
Gentleman Jack (Anne Lister) dragged me into the under-stairs cupboard. It took some effort to persuade her that I would not be added to her list of conquests.
Our joint presentation was at midday. We split the half hour slot equally so that I took the first fifteen minutes and HP the second.
I brushed my hair, put on my green corduroy jacket, picked up my data stick, and set off up the grassy bank to the podium – then swiftly turned around when I realised that I was still in stockinged feet.
Rather than pull on my black boots and make my way back up to the podium, my co-presenter and I abandoned our audience for a short walk over the grass to the sand dunes. Nobody would mind if the session started just a few minutes late, would they? We could always let the session run a few minutes into the lunch break, couldn’t we?
Our problem, however, was that we did not return until five minutes before the end of our slot. No matter how popular we might be as speakers, no audience would tolerate such arrogant behaviour.
My kitchen was transformed when someone (a designer?) removed all the coloured items and replaced every single one with its equivalent in yellow: yellow kettle, yellow drawer handles, yellow fridge…
I limped across Liverpool to Anfield to track down KA at work. Now employed as a physiotherapist at Liverpool FC, she would be able to massage my leg back to working order. I was particularly keen to be fit for a night out with our girlfriends.
Then I saw the bullying women. One was semi-naked and painted gold, reclining mid-air on a rope like an art deco figure. They screamed abuse at me as I set off for the evening. Their main accusation was that I kept a secret compartment in my handbag. This was apparently filled with £20 notes that I filched from the purses of my so-called friends. I shouted back that they would need to find a better reason to pick on me because this one made no sense at all. Remarkably this persuaded one of the gang – FF-A – to switch sides. She agreed to join me for dinner, much to the annoyance of the rest of her gang.
I felt a little uncomfortable at the dinner table when it was pointed out that I had committed a fashion faux pas: a white bra just visible under a black lacy top. (Apparently this was a worse crime than black satin shorts on a woman in her fifties.) This was soon forgotten, however, when I impressed everyone else at the table (including the daughter of one of the bullies) with my wide knowledge of European literature, in particular Cervantes and Don Quixote.
My mother convinced me that she knew the way back from town to her house – and I stupidly believed her. Three hours later we ended up in Sleaford, Lincolnshire.
Meanwhile TPR was selling newspapers to train commuters. In the quieter parts of the day he watched old Indiana Jones films on television. His only complaint was that he was not happy that SM ran a fruit and vegetable stall just a few yards along the road. KA was not pleased about this either.
We’d been dragged into the organisation of TPR’s step-uncle illegal scavenger hunt. Our part was to distribute ‘clues’ in the coves and along the cliff-tops of the North Yorkshire coast. We were pretty certain that this ‘game’ was tied to drug smuggling in some way.
We couldn’t pull out of this activity because of a threat issued by the step-uncle. In short, if we were to abandon the project or – worse still – report it to the police, it would be TPR’s mother who would suffer.
Dreamaticus 