The latest in bedroom flooring was beach pebbles – or so believed my mother-in-law.
‘This is going to be rather uncomfortable underfoot’ I remarked as I gingerly made my way over to the single bed in the spare room.
The seaside theme was also evident elsewhere. In the stairwell my father-in-law had replaced the wooden banister with nautical rope, and outside just across the back lawn I could see the side of a massive shipwrecked boat bobbing up and down in the waves.
The move to my new suite at the National Gallery was delayed by the disappointing performance of the decorators. Their slow work had been further delayed by the discovery of a skull in the skirting board. Now, however it was time to choose colour schemes. “Don’t forget you also have to choose the colours for the Pauper’s Pad”, said the foreman. I chose violet.
When I was supposed to be at work I poked around my sister J’s vastly extended house in West Sussex.
On the ground floor there was a luxurious self-contained holiday cottage that looked out onto a large rectangular pond destined to become a swimming pool, and a small field that housed a collection of miniature rare breed pigs.
Upstairs in the main house I worked my way through room after room (including a fully-operational woodworking studio and a dark wood and leather boardroom), astonished at the quantity of precious objects that my sister and her husband had collected from all corners of the earth over the years. All that antique silver, ebony and ivory: no wonder they always appeared short of cash!
The only rooms that did not ressemble museum galleries were the children’s bedrooms. All that P’s contained was a bed covered with green and yellow duvet, a couple of old plastic dinosaur toys, and a collection of limp green balloons.
Perhaps of most interest to me, however, were the open boxes of very posh chocolates in the upstairs drawing room. JB, who was also meant to be in the office, also had her eye on these.
Meanwhile, just across the road an impoverished disabled couple lived on a mattress on the ground of a rough single-roomed concrete hut. With only a dirty blue blanket for a door, tourists regularly peered into the hovel to witness how the other half (barely) lived.
I visited TPR in his shared student accommodation. The flat was still a dump, but at least the landlord had at last started to replace the rotting flooring.
In the tiny bedroom I worked on my French homework: writing an extended Haiku on the subject of wine. Then, dressed in a red satin dress and black lacy tights, I set off to the National Library of Scotland to meet my tutor and present my verse.
To add authenticity to the performance, I distributed bottles of wine around the library for the readers to enjoy.
In Nottingham AN interrupted the overweight yellow Harris Tweed clad waitresses as they gossiped about their boss’ complicated love life.
“Do you serve lunch on Christmas Day?’ she asked.
I was aghast that the idea of not preparing the festive family meal herself would ever cross AN’s mind.
I didn’t catch the waitresses’ reply because I was in a rush to catch the next train into the city centre for an onward connection north. I was just about to cross the road to the railway station when SC called after me to say that there would be no local trains for another two hours. Would I like to abandon my travel plans and instead go drinking with her, VG and VG’s partner M?
My acceptance of this kind invitation led to the highlight of the day for me: trading Lindtt chocolates with VG.
In B & E’s tiny galley kitchen I cooked pea soup on a temperamental electric hob. B was so keen to try the green boiling concoction that he drank some straight from the pan. It was a miracle that he did not scald his insides.
If making soup in such a confined space was difficult, washing up would be almost impossible. My first priority would be to establish whether we should work at the sink from left to right, or from right to left .
The streets of Toronto were lined with spectators for the first ever mermaid marathon. There was just one competitor: a green-tailed lady in a raspberry tutu. To add glamour to the event, Flo-Jo had volunteered as the mermaid’s pace-maker.
Unfortunately the enthusiasm of the crowds spilled over into irresponsible behaviour and the police were obliged to cancel the race for public safety reasons.
TPR and I were enjoying ourselves on the cycle path when my little sister interrupted our fun – again. She did not understand that her behaviour was inappropriate. TPR suggested that I should make it clear to her that I was famous, and perhaps she would then realise that I needed to be left in peace.
We ran away from her towards the canal, hoping to cross it by bridge. However, the only way to reach the other side was to swim. We both leapt in, thrashed our way through the brackish water, and emerged at the other side where (handily) there was a public swimming pool that offered showers to canal dippers.
There we also spotted CMcL, chewing on a cigar.
My suspicions were raised when I spotted the phrase ‘this doctoral study’ in LC’s honours project submission. It did not take long to confirm that ‘her’ dissertation was, in fact, a patchwork of text stitched together from sections of an illegally downloaded PhD thesis.
Dreamaticus 