AP passed on the information that Tracey Houston at the EPSRC hated me.
‘She has no idea that I know you’, AP explained. ‘I expect that she thinks her opinions can be confined to the M4 corridor’.
AP passed on the information that Tracey Houston at the EPSRC hated me.
‘She has no idea that I know you’, AP explained. ‘I expect that she thinks her opinions can be confined to the M4 corridor’.
Goodness knows why we sold our beautifully proportioned Georgian Edinburgh New Town flat. Now, instead, we owned two ridiculous pieds à terre.
Even students would turn their noses up at the first. The second was uninhabitable thanks to the mess caused by uninvited squatters who had moved in over the winter.
While I photographed the salmon under the bridge on Uig Sands, I believed that TPR was exploring the caves.
I was interrupted by an almighty splash as a sperm whale fell from a great height into the river just behind me. I found TPR squashed dead beneath it.
I ran as fast as I could up the beach to tell R and C that TPR was no more. It was only when I informed JC of the tragic news later the same day that I realised that I was now a very wealthy woman.
After jogging for longer than I had ever managed before, I came across a large funeral procession. The crowd lining both sides of the street were singing to the coffin. I jogged through the funeral parlour and bumped into SW who was admiring the napery. “When you see this,” she said, “you really understand the true meaning and purpose of tea towels.”
I agreed enthusiastically while making a mental note to myself to look up tea towels on Wikipedia as soon as possible.
We were travelling from the office to the seaside on board the company train. I was introduced to the new sales director who told me “I actually have a pretty great sense of humour.” I guffawed in his face.
“Simply by saying that you have proved you have NO sense of humour and are – in fact – a KNOB”.
I then stamped around the train carriage shouting “Knob, Knob, Knob” at the top of my voice.
JG didn’t care that his new dirty blue tattoo covered half his head.
When I pointed out that he risked never getting a job with such a monstrous appearance, he explained that he had already considered this. He would just grow his hair.
I was intensely jealous that TPR was courting our university friend HB, and worried that he would leave everything to her, rather than to me.
There was, however, a more tricky issue regarding the inheritance. I had bigamously ‘married’ TPR in the 1980s, so technically I was not his wife. He had absolutely no idea of all the complications that my long-held secret would cause.
Racing through Paris by car without a satnav, TPR’s erratic driving along this haphazard route was bound to end in disaster. We were meant to be heading into town – not out of it – and now I was pretty certain that we would soon hit the péripherique.
I was right. The huge roundabout ahead of us was not Place d’Italie. TPR, however, was undeterred. He said that he would simply zip round the roundabout and head back into central Paris by reversing the route. Such was his enthusiasm for this plan that he took the roundabout at immense speed, the car spun off it, and we came to an almighty halt upside down in a field of winter crops.
Miraculously neither of us was injured, nor was anyone in the family of pedestrians that was walking beside the field at the time. Phew!
However, my relief was short-lived when a teenage girl pointed out to us a corpse lying in the road. A young man had been flung out of his own vehicle when he crashed into another car as it made an emergency stop to avoid us.
I took TPR to one side. Would we be held responsible for this man’s death? Would the GPS data on my iPhone implicate us? Could it be deleted?