I was lost in London, late for a 10:00 meeting at the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals, without my mobile phone – indeed without even cash to use a public telephone.
Then, to make matters worse, I realised that I wasn’t in London at all. Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité to the right gave the biggest clue to my real whereabouts: Paris.
Two of my school friends (one KMcL) dressed in Liberty lawn cotton blouses admired my bedroom wallpaper.
Meanwhile JB made snide remarks that it was ‘unfashionable’.
There was a new company offering boat trips from Miavig on the Isle of Lewis. However, I was sure that it would soon go out of business because it failed to adhere to health and safety requirements. For example, I was expected to cling to the side of the RIB without the use of handles.
We looked on in envy at the party from the guest house, enjoying a picnic on Pabay courtesy of the established boat trip business.
I couldn’t wait to see RB wearing the silk blouson jacket I had bought him. Featuring a cutesy kitten design, it was cut deliberately short so that six inches of his tummy would be on display.
He seemed to really like it but when I saw his flat stomach, and realised how good the jacket looked on him, I realised I was seething with jealousy.
I was visiting New York on business and I had no idea why the hipster librarian had decided I must visit the city’s trendiest spa. I was told the full story. The owner of the spa had been rootling around in her cellar and had found paint tins full of her great-grandfather’s urine, all dated and sealed. Convinced of the health-giving properties of 100-year old wee wee, she had launched this spa.
In the dance studio, people were being led in an ancient Grecian dance routine while daubing the wee onto the foreheads. Already horrified, I was told this was simply the beginner session. As people progressed through the rooms in the spa, the treatments became even more ‘intense’. I decided to leave.
TPR and I were setting down to watch a 1970s film in the upstairs drawing room of the White House when we sensed that we were not alone. After a quick check behind the furniture revealed nothing, we sat back down again to pick up the plot of the movie. Then there was another, more distinct sound. This time we could tell that it came from behind the green velvet curtains.
Hiding by the window was a naked man! In his early 20s, all that he was carrying was a small document that revealed his identity as an Indian national. We guessed immediately that he was a refugee. I sent TPR to fetch some clothes from SEH’s bedroom while I comforted our unexpected visitor and told him not to be frightened. TPR returned with a black T shirt and an old pair of Marks and Spencers trousers.
Then, as if from nowhere, another person suddenly appeared. This refugee looked like he was from Africa. Fortunately he was already dressed. Now we had two people to look after.
I was just wondering how we would care for them when another three men emerged from behind the sofa. This was now beginning to get complicated, especially since the one with dirty blond hair was evidently a local man.
Small, scrawny – and somewhat shifty – he was obviously from Stockton-on-Tees. He hurried along the upstairs hall to make a bid for the staircase and a quick exit from the back of the house. The moment that I grabbed him I understood his role. He made extra cash trafficking refugees while dealing drugs.
It was his car parked outside that had brought the other men to our house, and which he hoped would provide his getaway. I was determined that he would not escape, but brought to justice instead.
I knew that it was unconventional to take one’s sibling to a school management meeting, but now that mine worked at the University (albeit in a different department), I thought that I would get away with it.
SS glanced over and clocked JMH. I introduced my sister as a new lecturer in pharmacology. JMH corrected me, explaining that her title was ‘lecturer in life sciences’. SS acknowledged our academic gate-crasher, but did not insist that she leave. Instead she showed me a scrap book in which she had made notes for the meeting. Here were some scribbles made by her children. I also saw my name scored out next to a paragraph of illegible text. I wondered what had been planned for me, and why the plans had changed.
After the meeting my sister and I walked to Holy Island with TPR tagging along behind us. The tide was coming in as we reached the causeway, but that did not deter us. We strode out and walked steadily through the rising water, with a few stops along the way for me to admire the view. I considered taking photos of the red ships in the distance to the north against the brilliant blue of the sea and the sky.
When we finally arrived at my sister’s house I was shocked at the state of the peeling black paintwork on the front door, and the untidy briary bushes that obstructed the path. However, once inside, where we were greeted by my mother, I was open-mouthed at the glorious interior of the enormous wood-panelled rooms decorated with original art work.
How would my sister manage the upkeep of this magnificent mansion in the long-term? Who would ever be rich enough to buy it from her when the time came to sell?
I was in the habit of commuting by train to the headquarters of the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Professionals in London. There I worked in the basement on an unending series of grant applications.
From time to time I would take a break and climb to the top floor of the building. There I would frighten myself by peering down the immense stairwell, imagining the bloody outcome should I fall and crash into the white tiles below.
One day I received an email from someone who signed off with the pseudonym ‘Jo Jo’. I actually knew the identity of the person behind the message that accused me of randomly pestering others for favours, expecting them to be granted on account of my ingratiating ‘shiny, happy, person’ act. Behind the poison pen was Penelope Wrightman of Aberystwyth University. I decided to take a walk outside to reflect on these insults, and the way in which I would respond to them.
In the distance I heard the sounds of a protest. Several men broke away from the march along the main road to accost individuals in the park where I was considering my email options. The man who ran towards me wore green and orange shorts and T shirt, and was shouting slogans from the 1984/5 miners’ strike. I feared for my safety and ran away.
Then a beautiful young woman approached me and asked whether I was from Ayr. I had a feeling that Jo Jo had sent her to spy on me. I responded by telling her that she was a very rude young lady who should not insult her elders with such impudent questions. When she burst into tears I apologised for my loss of temper – but it was too late.
I now realised that I had lost my grip on reality, regularly removing myself from my family each day to write pointless documents. I would phone TPR and tell him that I was coming home for good.
It took some time for me to dial the house number. First of all I tried to do so on a defunct Nokia mobile before I remembered that I owned an iPhone. Happily, within minutes of making my call TPR, my mother, and my not-so-little sister arrived in the Volvo to transport me home.
I saved the CD of Scottish folk music as a present for FR.
In the company of IB, LJ and JM, however, she regretted that she was unable to accept it. This music, apparently, was not to her tastes (at all).
Dreamaticus 