Tuning into Toto’s Africa (Rousse)

A full orchestra was tuning up from seats (rather than the stage) in the conference hall. I recognised the refrain: Toto’s Africa. The conductor was so enthusiastic that she was playing a clarinet herself, as well as leading the musicians.

I wanted to hear more, but a conference official shooed me away from my spot just outside the door. She explained that this was just a rehearsal, and that I would be able to listen to the whole performance later when the conference was next in session.

I was too lazy to go for a swim during the break, so instead headed back to the hotel room that I shared with two much younger delegates.

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A greedy dumped wife (Rousse)

When we returned from our holiday, TPR told me he was serious this time: he no longer wanted me, not even if I turned a blind eye to his affairs.

Fortunately for me, CSX was waiting in the wings, ready to drop FFX in my favour. I was not really attracted to CSX, but I knew that he adored me, and he was due to inherit from his very wealthy family. I also couldn’t bear the thought of being on my own. So when TPR refused for the final time to take me back, I knew what I had to do.

As I was drawn into CSX’s family, however, I regretted taking him on. I discovered that his fish-eyed, gay, Jewish father was holding secret meetings with CSX’s siblings, all of whom were determined to cut him out of the family fortune.  Without the prospect of his inheritance, I was hardly interested in CSX at all.

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Cancer patient makes an early, and ill-advised, return to work (Rousse)

LM was shocked to see me in the corridor on campus.

‘Whatever are you doing here?’ she shouted. ‘You’ve got cancer. Go back home to your sickbay!’

My own opinion was that I was fit to work. Then I tried to climb into the low-shelved paternoster lift, witnessed by AV, CFS and one other (the latter two wearing green and blue jumpers that I had hand-knitted). It was proved that I should still be on sick leave when I obviously did not have the strength to mount the lift.

However, before I sloped off home, I checked the office that I shared with QDX. My belongings were all intact, but his were covered with yellow stickers.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘It looks like I am surplus to requirements, I have lost my job, and all my stuff is going to be thrown out,’ he replied.

After my office-mate had left, I noticed that he had forgotten to take his mobile phone and some sweets that he had purchased for his children. I stole two chocolates, then handed everything else into campus reception for my (now) ex-colleague to collect at a later date.

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Lunch with Barry Cryer (Rousse)

I took pity on Barry Cryer, dining alone at a table for two. He recognised me when I joined him, and seemed to welcome my company.

We discussed my ‘secret talent’, and the pleasure of revealing to others that I was a writer for BBC Radio 4’s I’m sorry I haven’t a clue.

At the end of the meal I asked Barry to pass on my best wishes to our mutual friend Willie Rushton, forgetting that the long-dead comedian had left this world in 1996.

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A garden trespasser sausage chef (Rousse)

When I glanced through the bedroom window I saw a tall dark man cooking sausages on our barbecue in our garden.

‘Go get him!’ I ordered TPR.

‘No problem’, he replied, waving his axe in the air.

While TPR charged out the back door, I ran into the kitchen to grab the camera so that I could photograph the garden trespasser. However, before I even had a chance to take the camera out of its case, TPR returned from his quest, groaning.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘He got me before I got him’ he replied, then doubled up in pain from a massive blow to his abdomen.

I ran to the phone to call the police, but the line was dead. We were forced to accept that TPR’s attacker would escape unpunished.

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An American cheese snatcher (Rousse)

At last our obnoxious American visitor was leaving the country – but why were members of my family wrapping up all our spare cheese as a farewell gift for her? I was going to use it in my cooking.

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National Insurance contributions for a private school teacher (Rousse)

I accepted a job as a teacher at the tiny private prep school that my grandmother operated from the extension at the back of her house.

I hoped that this was all above board, and that she would pay my National Insurance contributions.

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Arnold Schwartzenegger’s boring speech (Rousse)

Two of my Polish colleagues had commandeered my office while I was on long-term sick leave. My desk and other belongings were now all squeezed into a dark corner. I hoped that this was a temporary measure and that I would be able to claim back all my space when I returned to work.

I took a wander from my office down to the campus basement so that I could visit the university foundry. I loved watching the melt as it poured into the moulds. Again, I was disappointed. The foundry was empty of workers due to the Easter holiday. The only other person there was a member of office admin staff. She was checking a temperature on an enormous old-fashioned gauge under the instruction of KC.

My colleague told me that it would be worth popping into the gym on our way back to our offices because Arnold Schwartzenegger was scheduled to give a talk there in a few minutes. I found myself a spot on the parquet floor (not far from AMcN, who had slipped out of the library to see the Hollywood hero) and waited for the famous speaker to arrive.

Schwartzenegger’s presentation was very dull so I didn’t stay until the end. Instead I left early with JG, following a route by river boat then up a mountain pass. Here we ran into RA and two of his young children. I surprised RA with a rather enthusiastic kiss (which he may have mistaken for a snog).

The day finished with a party at a members’ club for hill walkers hosted by JG and RA. Amongst the guests was my school friend KM and her sister SM. They spent the whole evening amusing themselves by pretending to be a married couple.

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Tamsin Greig caught up in sewage crisis (Rousse)

No wonder our tiny bathroom was awash with debris from the domestic sewage system. There were simply far too many people in the house, and the drains could no longer cope with the increased use of the facilities.

Somehow TPR and I needed to rid ourselves of these unwanted visitors, especially those who were sleeping in our bedroom. A few were in a white divan next to the wardrobe, others were on the floor, and we had Tamsin Greig sandwiched between us in our own bed.

In the meantime I wondered who was going to clean up the raw sewage that was now seeping across the tiles and out of the bathroom door and into the green bedroom carpet? It was Thursday, but TPR considered such a task beyond the call of duty of our weekly cleaner.

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New efficient technique for unwanted hair removal (Rousse)

SM’s new party trick was to half-swallow a wire, lodge it in his throat, use it to grasp the hairs outside on his neck from the inside, pull the hairs through the skin, and bring them back out of his mouth.

‘This is so much more efficient than shaving’, he declared.

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