In the YouTube video JS lay in bed flanked by two handmade brushed cotton teddy bears – both creations of mine from the 1990s. She was singing along to karaoke tunes selected by her husband RR.
I showed a clip to JG on the bus. We both agreed that the caterwauling was truly painful.
At the Northern Line station, I walked behind a man and his pig negotiating the entry barriers. After they got through, the pig took off running down the escalator. The man was chasing the pig, and screaming “Stop, pig” as other commuters scattered out of the way.
My track record with newborns was not good so I was somewhat reluctant when LM’s sister asked me if I would like to hold the baby.
While the baby was still in her aunt’s arms, I pulled back the white blanket and peeked at the tiny face. With that distinctive little nose, there was no mistaking the parentage of this child!
The family did not appreciate the risk of allowing me to take the baby. I tried to tell them that children die when I cradle them, but they did not believe me – until twenty minutes later when I handed back the tiny corpse.
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?
Dreamaticus 