My former neighbour was a wasteful interior designer. This was great news for me and the new occupant of the flat above mine. We could take our pick of all the items that the spendthrift had abandoned in the skip at the far end of the garden, next to the rusting car.
I was delighted with my ‘new’ blue silk Persian rug and Harris Tweed patchwork cape.
I’d sneakily commandeered some excess shelving in the HQ of a revered learned society. Amongst the books, I left a mix of cardboard boxes and plastic crates stuffed with stationery and miscellaneous odd belongings for which there was no room in my flat.
On the day of the ball I returned to the building to find that the entire library had been kitted out as a cosmetics hall. Where once there were books there were now rows and rows of lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara – and my belongings were nowhere to be seen.
I confessed to a member of staff that I had ‘mislaid’ a couple of files in the old library. To my relief she explained that she had safely stored them during the refurbishment. I was so happy to hear this, not least because in one of the boxes was the only copy of the manuscript of my father’s novel (which I had promised to get published one day).
MSB and I were famous: she for her fabulous gown designs; I for my witty wedding speeches.
Whether or not they were our clients, brides-to-be queued for hours for autographs and selfies with us. They were terribly excited at the prospect of meeting us in person, even for just a fleeting moment.
I recognised most of the gang members in a vague way. I definitely recognised François Cluzet and I decided another chap had been in Amélie. I watched as they planned the post office heist, but also as the police and post office officials kept an eye on what they were up to.
On the day of the raid, the gang broke into a locked cupboard and pulled out piles of undelivered post. They then attached a 100 franc note to each letter as ‘compensation’ for late delivery. Even the police had to applaud the gang for their generous gesture and the officials at the post office had to explain why so much post had been undelivered and hidden away.
Before the gang left, they loaded their canvas bags with uncooked pork short ribs.
The surprise party had been arranged to celebrate me becoming Professor Belle. Vicky McClure and I began to smooch on the dance floor but I still felt guilty. The previous summer I had run off with her fiance, Jason Statham, while he worked as a long distance lorry driver. We’d had wild sex in every ferry port in Europe. Now Vicky and I were both being unfaithful to Statham.
Out of the blue I heard that I had been named as a co-investigator on a UK Digital Economy Programme Network+ grant on the theme of ‘Place’. The project would be led by a colleague at the University of St Andrews, who had recently returned to work following a period of maternity leave.
Our first project meeting took place in a posh hotel high on a cliff overlooking a golf course and the sea. Here we would plan the events for the network programme.
A member of hotel staff tidied up while we discussed how to spend the grant. She threw a pile of papers on to the fire, amongst them all the signed documentation related to our funding, including sponsorship agreements with several large companies.
Despite our best efforts with soft furnishings, we failed to put out the flames and save the contracts. Our project was over before it even began.
The renamed, but not refurbished, Mason Hall on the Vale at the University of Birmingham was to be our home for our Masters year.
Once again I was sharing accommodation with HJ and SL, although this time it was not a flat. Instead it was tiny room containing one double bed. Next to it was a tiny bathroom with a camp bed under the basin. This was not going to be comfortable.
My sister S provided a convenient distraction from my accommodation worries, and study. While it was fun to spend time with her, before long I was falling behind with my work.
I wondered whether I might be better off asking to switch rooms, then knuckling down to some serious revision? JM was accommodated on one of the floors above us near the library. Perhaps he would have room for me?
My mother held up the strange flattened ice form to show it to me. Then, ignoring my shrieked warnings, she stepped backwards and fell 10 feet into the basement yard below.
Fortunately she bounced, so was unharmed.
When it looked like she had come to the end of her loud Home Counties rant about spoiling the peace of the Scottish countryside, I murmured an ‘OK, we get it’. I quickly slipped her the two fingers just as she made a move to walk away.
She immediately turned back to me and started again, this time on Brexit, with reinforcements. What she hadn’t counted on was that the couple that she pulled into the argument were my school friend AP and her husband, and he – at least – was on my side.
This had all kicked off simply because my mother, sister S and I were playing music to celebrate our reunion with my father five months after his death. Wouldn’t anyone turn up the car radio if they rediscovered a lost loved one? (We also enjoyed playing with the three little girls that we found on the back seat of the car, each a younger version of the three sisters.)
I’d been given a tiny little child’s desk in a corridor. Soon I would be expected to manage every single Olympic Games ticket order and yet the new senior managers were trying to force me out of my job.
I decided to pal up with the sales force and they took me out for a test drive in a brand new gold Audi. After a minor bump on the overpass we went to a hotel where I ran a bath and threw off all my clothes while encouraging my three colleagues to join me in the tub.
Grace Kelly was at the bar and I admired her spy skills. She was having a conversation with a detective about getting drunk and the detective was nodding along enthusiastically. To the enemy seated a few feet away, it looked as if she was exposing their plot and the detective believed her. I’d never seen this Hitchcock film before, and now I was actually part of the action.
Dreamaticus 