My mother had only been studying for a week, so had barely opened the book when I told her that it was time for her first exam.
I was somewhat responsible for the panic that ensued. I really should have warned her that there was an assessment so early in the schedule, and told her the seen essay question – not least because I was the tutor.
A pile of groceries lay on the floor at the entrance to LIDL: a cabbage, a dozen potatoes, a few sprouts, and six tins of tomatoes. They’d been there for at least two days, but nobody knew the reason why. Perhaps somebody had forgotten their shopping? Or could this be a novel art installation?
When we passed it again – this time with GG on the way to see his new house and meet his fiancée – I was sorely tempted to pick everything up, take it home, and transform it into soup.
I left my school friend KC in charge of the mixed selection of beautiful green-striped turtles that were climbing up our side of the bath. This allowed me to drive south to collect my mother from my cousins’ house in the Borders.
There were several members of my family that I did not expect to see at our meeting point. These included my maternal grandmother, in reasonable health despite being 110 years old, wearing a blue dress and sitting happily in a wheelchair.
Most impressive was my cousins’ antique kitchen cupboard. It was as tall as their massive house and, as such, was treated like an entire separate wing of the building.
Before I returned home I weighed myself with SY and CS. SY was (unexpectedly) only 8’7″, and Carol 11’4″. I prayed that I would come in at under 10′.
It was well-known that this was the last season that the bed and breakfast on the Isle of Lewis would be welcoming guests, and for this reason it was mobbed. Most visitors were returning guests, keen to relive the fun of previous stays for one final time.
Unfortunately the proprietors could not cope with the influx of guests so I was asked to switch to ‘chalet maid’ role and help out at dinner. When I brought the tiny portions to the table it was obvious to all that there was simply not enough food to go round. One poor diner was obliged to wait until after everyone else had finished their meal before an extra crème caramel could be produced for her pudding.
Some of the guests supplemented their diet elsewhere. One headed off to the community shop to stock up on biscuits. Others discovered a pop-up fish and chip shack close to the shore. Even I bought a couple of long, thin, slimy veal steaks for myself and TPR to fry up later (although whether or not they would be in a fit state to eat by the time we reached the house was questionable because I kept dropping them in the sand).
After scaring myself silly on the library’s open paternoster podium (at the instigation of LM), I followed a student in highland dress to the graduation ball.
The latter was a grave disappointment. In a tiny meeting room at the back of the library around a dozen international students in everyday dress listened to a scruffy old man discuss the merits of the Scottish bagpipes. This was hardly the wild ceilidh celebration of the end of the academic year that I anticipated.
We were travelling to our Alpine ski holiday on an early morning flight from Newcastle airport – as, it would appear, was half the population of the north east of England. All the airport hotels were fully booked, so we took advantage of South Tyneside Council’s offer to host one night stays in a temporary camp site on the beach at South Shields.
TPR and I squeezed ourselves into the last remaining sand dune pitch. Our hearts sank when we saw our immediate neighbours: a huge family of three generations that included at least one toddler and a baby, and a couple testing out a DIY tattoo kit on one another’s legs.
When the grandfather of the family lit a cigarette, I had no choice but to ‘have words’ with him. We managed to maintain civility between us as we agreed a couple of concessions: he would smoke away from us all provided that I looked after the baby while he was gone.
My duties over, I took off along the beach for a wonderful run to the far end of the bay where enormous rollers crashed up the shore. I had no idea that the seaside of South Shields was so beautiful.
When I awoke I found myself at the wheel of my mother’s silver Volvo automatic heading downhill at top speed along a high-hedged, narrow country lane. I bounced across the roundabout at the bottom, lost a wheel, and landed the car on a grass verge. Within minutes the police were on the scene, and I was taken into custody.
The police station was in chaos. I wondered how anyone managed to make sense of the mess of evidence scattered all over the place to make a single conviction.
When I spotted a Volvo wheel hub on the floor, I knew that this single artefact would seal my fate. I prayed that my mother would never hear of my motoring misdemeanours.
I managed to set up a sewer-phone line to P and SM by lifting a manhole cover in the street.
We discussed by drain the death of Durham University undergraduate KF, and how we would deal with her parents later in the week.
We developed a new income stream: pick-pocketing London Tube passengers as they travelled up and down the escalators.
Dreamaticus 