I shopped naked on Princes Street not because I was an exhibitionist, but because I hated the process of getting dressed.
TPR begged me to break this habit, fearful that one day I would eventually be spotted in the nude by someone who knew me.
As a compromise I wrapped myself up in a single white bed sheet around, Hallowe’en ghost style.
I was on the road to Nowhere – literally.
Few people are aware that Nowhere is a small town in South Wales with a very poor train service.
I remembered that I had agreed to catch up with LM at 4:30pm, but I had forgotten to check the venue of our meeting.
I was shocked when I saw in her Facebook message that we were to meet in Smeaton. I hadn’t even heard of this place! When I checked the map, I saw that Smeaton was miles away across the other side of the city, and that it would be impossible to reach LM in time.
I tried to call LM to cancel our get-together, but the phone that I was using was absolutely hopeless. It was a landline model from the 1980s, recommissioned as a ‘mobile phone’ having been wrenched out of the soil, clods of which were still attached to the bottom. Out of its top grew a small shrub. There was even a tiny cassette tape inserted into its base to take primitive ‘voicemail’.
Ultimately I was unsuccessful in my attempts to contact LM. She would be very worried about my health when she eventually realised that I was not going to turn up as arranged.
PD misunderstood something I said. In all innocence, he passed this ‘information’ on to WB. Before I had a chance to stop her, WB had shared the news with NP. We had no idea how far it spread after this.
One thing for certain, however, was that JM would be very surprised to return from his travels to a colourful coming out party organised by his friends.
TPR and I parked out tatty car outside the lodge on RB’s massive estate. He’d paid for all this land and the mansion further up the drive with his earnings as an orthopedic surgeon.
As anticipated, RB was not happy to find us littering his land. It was obvious that he did not recognise us when he angrily ordered us to leave in a tirade of right wing expletives. There was no doubt which way he had voted over Brexit.
Later TPR and I sat in the kitchen of a small cottage, the walls of which were papered all over with multiple copies of the same full-page advert for a croft in the Outer Hebrides.
My missing conference pack had been sent to the wrong address in error. I tore open the envelope so that I could change into my outfit immediately.
LM looked on in horror as I squeezed my feet into the tiny red transparent plastic high-heeled sandals.
LM had to say something because she was duty-bound to stop me making a fool of myself. Only a certain type of man could get away with the Minnie Mouse look at a conference, she explained, and I was not of that type.
How could I tell my cousin NT, as well as his wife DT who had selected the outfit, that a 1970s shocking pink velvet suit, complete with oversize lapels and 24 inch flared trousers, was not a good look for the Oscars ceremony?
I suggested that he check the 2017 television footage of the event and copy the style of dress of men in attendance last year.
KA rejected all of our holiday destination suggestions. The resort was too big/small, the beach too crowded/quiet, the weather too warm/cool. This was too much for us all. How could anyone else book their own holidays if they were dependent on the decision of a woman who could not make up her mind. In desperation I threw a brick at KA and stomped out of the room, leaving TPR and (lond-dead) PH to pick up the pieces.
Later when we all reconvened I noticed ghostly figures flitting through the house. It took a lot of effort to identify that these were death eaters, waiting to pounce. Only one man could save us: Richard Beckinsale.
Although sneering at the entire concept, I found myself gradually falling in love with cat ballet.
What clinched it for me was the performance of a student and her black cat in the lobby of Sterling Cooper and Partners. The cat and her human partner twirled in unison, and the finale saw the cat spiral around her owner’s body and complete the act by balancing on top of the student’s head. I burst into enthusiastic applause.
Dreamaticus 