When TPR took up membership of an exclusive club I hoped that I would soon receive an invitation myself.
However, TPR was dead set against my joining him once he discovered the main reason for bringing in new recruits: so that the older members could practise harpoon techniques on live human subjects.
There were strange goings-on in the School office.
Admin staff were marking exam scripts with the authority of (retired) lecturer RK. ‘It’s easy enough to check that the numbers at the end of the calculations are the same as in the model answers’ explained KT.
Meanwhile, just back from a funeral, two male colleagues snatched a kiss at a table. Was this public display of affection more shocking than their decision not to wear black ties to the service? (I had to admit that I liked the pheasant pattern on one of the ties.)
KA danced at the bottom of the staircase in a fluffy pink bolero. One year ago she hardly mentioned AO. Now he was here too.
Afterwards we went for a walk. KA’s daughter R was ahead of us, alone and distracted. ‘That’ll be because her boyfriend Todd just dumped her’ explained KA.
However, by the time we reached the main road R had a spring in her step and Todd at her side. Apparently reunited, they disappeared into a café for the afternoon.
TPR and I took a holiday in Cornwall where the beaches were golden, the sky and sea were blue, and the weather unseasonably warm for February.
My only complaint was that our accommodation was well below standard. We did not appreciate having to share a dormitory with other families and groups of friends.
I am one the few people who know the secret of the fifth floor of the British Library.
If ever lost in this august building, you should come to this level and turn left along the balcony above the reading room.
At the far end you will find the old-fashioned lift, operated by a pale young man. Climb into the lift, ask for the ground floor, be prepared for your ears to pop, and enjoy the journey downwards and back out into the open again.
All the kitchen staff in the Outer Hebridean guest house were Chinese Geordies, famous for their signature dish of pan-fried sausages.
The others instantly recognised me as an academic. One told me that she had previously considered me a suitable candidate to co-supervise a PhD student with her, even before I confirmed my identity. Encouraged by her enthusiasm for my work, I offered my services as external examiner instead.
Formal introductions made, they then asked me if I’d heard from BMcNX. The only information that I was able to give them was that I was aware that she and her husband were apart during the week because of her job.
‘That’s what they would like you to believe’ they informed me. ‘However, the real reason that they barely see one another is that her husband is gay’.
I forced my father to remove his ‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’ chart from the hall wall. He put it in the bathroom instead.
My next mission was to persuade TPR to get a plumber in to fix the lavatory – and perhaps even completely upgrade the avocado bathroom suite.
I murdered GW with a plan: to blame the cats for her death.
Dreamaticus 