I ruined the University of Nottingham’s graduate testimonials web page when I picked out the plastic letters from the top line and dropped them on the floor.
I simply couldn’t remember the wording that JC had used to honour her French degree from 1985, so was unable to replace the line.
I hoped that they had a back-up.
I was an extra in a new Dr Who spin-off. Despite our requests, none of the ‘actors’ on my grade were informed in advance of the plot. This was to add to the authenticity of the monster scenes.
SPL and HJ had also signed up for roles. For our first assignment we were bathers in a roof-top swimming pool of viscous blue cling-film. The actress who had played the first black Dr Who was also in this scene, but we were not permitted look at her.
Seconds in, SPL was swallowed up by a sea monster.
Then we were all marshalled into a red double decker bus to be transported through Leeds to Harrogate. The bus stopped at a junction at the end of a terraced street in Harrogate to allow SPL to disembark.
It was so obvious that this had all been planned. Unlike the rest of us, SPL had been informed of the plot and her short-lived role. She had also managed to persuade the producer to give her a lift home after she had completed her part.
My new shoes were made out of puff pastry.
At the end of the interview Martha Kearney asked me to wait while she fetched something to cover me up. She returned with a beautiful royal blue cashmere coat.
‘We can’t have you sitting around the studio half-naked’ she explained.
I considered her view somewhat old-fashioned and inappropriate, not least because the contribution that we had just recorded was for Women’s Hour.
As usual we were hosting a horde over the weekend. From the bedroom I could hear TPR joking with our guests in the kitchen, telling hilarious tales of our various recent exploits. At first I assumed that he was mentioning my name with affection, but from the looks on the faces of the others when I rejoined the party, I could tell that he had been making fun of me.
I waited until after everyone had left before I tackled TPR. What on earth had he been telling our friends?
He eventually confessed that he had invited his ex-work colleague Veronica and her drummer boyfriend from Manchester to spend a couple of days in our flat while we were away for a weekend. His kitchen audience had been in hysterics as he told Veronica’s story of working her way through the intimate contents of my wardrobe.
I was furious. I had no problem with allowing others to stay in our flat unaccompanied, but not without my knowledge.
My friend told me I should walk to Brewer Street where I would find ‘adorable and affordable’ dresses. However, along the way I joined a queue to have my fortune read by Cerys Matthews. Cerys was standing behind a counter and was using a jeweller’s eyepiece to ‘read’ the fortunes that were written in paper and stacked in a perspex box.
JM gave me very little time to consider the sense of his suggestion.
‘Just hold my hand tight, and everything will be fine’ he instructed. Then we jumped the twenty feet from the balcony into the school hall below.
JM landed neatly upright on his feet. Meanwhile I still had so much momentum that I floated above the surface of the floor for several minutes. Indeed I did not touch down again until we reached NP’s house for the wee gathering in Nine Mile Burn.
At the party we reminisced with SL about NP’s old flat. Then I wondered about TPR. Would he still be packing the tiny rental car for the trip to Pitlochry? If only he would use his mobile phone, then I would be able to ring and ask him.
JM suggested that he take me to fetch TPR. We walked up the gravelled hillside, admiring the shadows that the trees cast in the late afternoon sunshine. I was enjoying JM’s company so much that I began to wonder whether we should just leave TPR to his own devices.
I was forever finding and losing people on the London tube. One day, for example, I spotted my O level history teacher Mrs T travelling in the opposite direction on the moving walkway. Then I ran into a girl from my class – DB – dressed in a bright blue fun fur coat.
‘You were the first person I ever knew who understood personal branding’ I said in complete admiration.
I was often parted from my travelling companions because I got distracted. On one occasion I ended up tagging along a tunnel with a French family (who all spoke beautiful English, even the two teenagers), while desperate to find my own friends again.
It was impossible to disguise that I was an middle class English woman, and did not belong in a Northern Irish Protestant working men’s club. However, my hosts were keen for me to witness the atmosphere in the smoke-filled bar, and enjoy a traditional Ulster dinner with them.
I didn’t recognise the names of most of the dishes that were listed on the white ceiling above us, but was delighted that a straightforward plate of sausage and mashed potato could be requested for me. So long as I didn’t choke on the heavy cigarette smoke, this could be a fun evening of people-watching.
However, as soon as the other club members discovered my identity, the atmosphere in the bar changed. Within minutes everyone had left in disgust. Those who had granted a woman entry to this smoky sanctuary of male privilege would be severely punished.
I discovered the twenty-first century equivalent of Saturday loitering in HMV.
This was to spend the afternoon between the enormous file servers at Spotify’s headquarters in Sweden, dancing to the entire repertoire of the Smiths.
Dreamaticus 